Strangers In The Night
by lovelorn45
Summary: Vincent must rely on the kindness of a stranger to stay alive.
1. Chapter 1

STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT, is an original story, inspired by the U.S. cult T.V. series BEAUTY AND THE BEAST and was first written in 1998 and published independently. I can confirm that I am the original author.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Ron Koslow, Witt-Thomas Productions, Republic Pictures, CBS.

With regard to the poem THE LIFE THAT I HAVE - I feel that I should point out, that although, in the context of this story, Catherine says that she cannot recall the name of the movie where she heard these poignant lines, they actually come from the old British movie, - CARVE HER NAME WITH PRIDE, starring Virginia McKenna as the heroine VIOLETTE SZABO - and was written by Leo Marks.

The night was bitterly cold and wet, a heavy rain having set in late in the afternoon and had not let up since, and despite the many layers of mismatched and much mended homespun clothes and the heavy cloak with which he covered himself, Vincent found himself shivering this late February night.

His rough whiskered, leonine face was slick with rain water, the usually fluffy bangs of his hair, and his fringe were soaked through where they were not protected by the capacious hood of his cloak, and his boots squelched in deep puddles as he deliberately tried to hug the line of buildings, keeping to the deep shadows and taking advantage of the protection the buildings afforded from the bitter, biting Easterly wind.

He was fortunate to be blessed with a strong constitution and an unusually resilient immune system, but he still didn't take unnecessary chances with his health, and was looking forward to returning Below, to dry ground, to begin his journey to Catherine's basement threshold, where he had arranged to meet her later.

First, he had promised Father that he would take the food and medicine to Isaac Blum, an elderly helper, who lived in a small, damp, bed sit in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and who had recently fallen on hard times himself. Old and infirm now, Isaac had no family, save for those he had helped for the past twenty years, Below, and now it was their turn to return the favor.

Isaac had been in a bad way when Vincent arrived, a hard, hacking cough rendering him incapable of speech, and Vincent had had to physically help him into bed, where he had gasped and wheezed for the best part of ten minutes before finally choking out his thanks for the food and medication.

Vincent had been reluctant to leave him, fearing the worst. That the old man might slip away.

Such was his compassionate heart that Vincent did not like the idea of the old man dying alone, and would have stayed, had Isaac not made it clear to him that he did not want or need the younger man's sympathy.

Father, Vincent knew, would be very sad to hear of this swift deterioration in Isaac's condition. They had been relatively close for many years, Isaac providing fresh fruit and vegetables from his small grocery store with a generosity that was overwhelming.

He was also the one chess player that Jacob Wells could beat with any regularity.

This thought brought a smile to Vincent's lips, the small gesture that lifted his features gently, without revealing his teeth, as he huddled inside his cloak and hurried across a wide gap between this block of buildings and the next block, ducking swiftly behind a rusted, faded green garbage dumpster at the sudden sound of an approaching vehicle, whose twin beams of dull yellow light, illuminated the alley.

Vincent shivered again, and not through cold this time.

Here in this part of Brooklyn, he felt very exposed, there being only three entrances to the tunnels Below, and they were quite difficult to access, a fair distance apart too.

Fortunately, he only had another four blocks to traverse before he could duck into the old, long abandoned print shop, _**KIMBLES**_, down to the sub-basement, and to sanctuary and dry ground beyond.

Vincent thought about Isaac again, as he squatted beside the garbage dumpster.

When he returned Below later, to tell Father how the old man was, he would suggest that they approach one of the other helpers to look in on Isaac in the morning.

Perhaps Clifford Wilson would oblige. He didn't live too far away, only six blocks from Isaac's place.

Vincent's train of thought was suddenly and violently disturbed by loud, throbbing music, emanating from another vehicle as it cruised down the street, flooding the alley with white light that picked out even Vincent's huddled form, his breath a plume of white vapor in the night air.

As he peeped out from beside the dumpster, Vincent could see the vehicle passing on toward the intersection up ahead, and knew that something was afoot, that he had to find somewhere better to conceal himself.

Inside the car, a late model, dark saloon, building up speed now as it headed down the street, Vincent could see four men,

Up front, smoking cigarettes, were two men, who appeared to be in their early twenties, wearing dark, knit ski caps, and in the back, through the blue haze left by burning tobacco, Vincent could just make out two younger looking men, nothing but teenage boys really, clad in dark jackets and the same dark, knit ski caps.

Vincent's intense, keen blue eyes narrowed as they followed the car's movements down the alley toward the intersection, close on the wheels of the first vehicle, which Vincent hadn't had time to observe properly when he had taken cover from the first set of headlights.

Suddenly, the night was filled with noise, car doors slamming. Young men shouting, laughing ...

Gunfire ...

_**Gunfire ...**_

Which sent Vincent scurrying for cover as a hail of bullets suddenly flew over his head.

The young hoodlums, spraying the alley and the garbage cans and the rusted metal dumpsters which lined it, indiscriminately with their automatic weapons.

Their keen young eyes must have spotted his sudden movement, as he broke from cover, for a string of bullets followed Vincent's dark cloaked, huddled form, back up the alley, hot on his heels, sizzling hot metal hissing in the rain, the bitter, acrid smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils as the bullets whizzed past his head.

And Vincent suddenly felt a sharp, stinging sensation in his left shoulder. then another in his lower right back, and another in the back of his left thigh, his eyes darting from side to side frantically, seeking an escape route.

"Hey man, what was that?" He heard someone shout from close behind him, as he tried to accelerate away from them, but his usual speed was not there.

They were gaining on him, youth and good health on their side.

"Dunno ..." This from a second, disinterested voice.

"Some dumb hobo, lost his pitch for the night ..." Another voice with a sneering laugh filled the air.

"Hey! Hey, did we hit him?" A third, younger, more anxious voice shouted. "Dammit, I ain't up for that!"

"Shut up, dope, you wanna wake the whole neighborhood?" A fourth, older, more authoritative voice echoed around the alley.

His lungs burning, his strength ebbing away, Vincent lurched on until, at last, just up ahead, the alley rounded a corner, and opened out into a dark, cobbled courtyard, the backside of a block of old apartment buildings, strung with slack washing lines and telephone cables.

It was a dead end.

But it was the only hope he had.

If he could just find something to hide behind.

The old cobbled yard was uneven and slick with rain and as he skidded around the corner, Vincent lost his footing, tumbling head first down a flight of narrow stone steps surrounded by a black, rusty iron railing, bumping down each step with a gentle thump and a soft gasp of pain.

Quickly, gathering his wits, Vincent scrambled to where no light from the street penetrated the shadows at the foot of the steps, realizing that he had been fortunate enough to fall into the entrance to a basement apartment.

"Hey, where'd he go?" This from a different voice, close by.

"Who cares ..." The disinterested voice again.

"This ain't no fun ..." This from a much younger, higher pitched voice.

"Yeah, lets go find another place to do our ... _**hunting**_ ..." More laughter.

"What about the hobo?"

"Like I said, who cares?"

"If we hit him, he might die ..." A different voice again,

"So what? One less wino to fall over ..." Laughter again.

"But hey, man, that's murder ..."

"No it ain't ..." A younger, cocky voice mocked.

"It's manslaughter ... ain't like we planned to kill anyone ..."

"But we didn't exactly check the alley to see that no-one was dossing down there either, did we man!"

"You're so smart ... _**now**_!"

"Hey, shut up ..."

"C'mon, lets get out of here ..." The authoritative voice again.

The sound of an approaching police siren split the night air, and was quickly followed by the sound of feet, splashing through puddles, ringing around the alley, quickly followed by car doors slamming, and then engines being gunned, before the squeal of tires echoed in the night.

Breathing heavily, a grimace of pain twisting his top lip, Vincent waited to see what would happen next, if the police would show up, but for what seemed like an eternity, there was only the distant sound of traffic, music from a jukebox from a distant bar, a dog baying at the moon, the wind, the rain, a baby crying, his heart pounding in his ears, the ragged sound of his labored breathing.

Vincent tried to stand, but every breath filled his entire upper body with excruciating pain and fire, and his leg would not hold him up.

He was getting weaker.

Losing a lot of blood.

So cold.

_**So cold ...**_

Dear God ...

He was going to die here ...

The thought flashed through his mind, bringing with it images of Father, Catherine, Mary, Mouse, all the people that he loved, and who loved him in return.

Never to see any of them again.

Tears of pain and anger welled up in his eyes, and he thought again about Catherine.

She would be waiting for him. She would continue to wait, he reasoned silently, trying to hang on to consciousness, and when he did not show up at the appointed hour, in her basement, she would know that something was wrong, and she would alert Father.

But ...

That wouldn't do him any good.

They would ask the helpers Above to look out for him, but by the time they found him ...

_**If**_ they found him ...

It would be too late.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe, to stay lucid, to hang on to consciousness.

"Catherine ..." He groaned in anguish, reaching out to her with his mind, wondering if through their empathic link, she might be aware of his plight.

But no ...

_**That**_ was too much to ask ...

"Catherine ... I ... love ... you ... and Father ... dear Father ... I ... love you ... too ... I'm so sorry ... so ... sorry ..." He gasped raggedly in a small, sad voice, the last of his strength almost gone.

Suddenly, everything was very blurred and foggy.

Everything was pain.

Fire.

Blackness.

With a soft little sigh, Vincent embraced the blackness, slipping into the waiting void, his body slumping forward in a heap against the bottom stone step, his hood falling forward to conceal his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Catherine Chandler slipped quietly and unnoticed through the lower level of her building, and carefully down the short ladder to the basement threshold.

She walked confidently through the familiar beam of downcast eerie blue/white light, expecting to find Vincent waiting for her, hand outstretched in greeting.

Except that when she reached the gap in the brickwork where he usually awaited her arrival, she found the passageway beyond strangely quiet and empty.

A frown tugged at her brow beneath her fringe.

It was unusual for him to be late.

He had such an affinity for time.

Still, perhaps he had been delayed, some crisis Below requiring his attention, some last minute disaster, or request from Father.

But, if that were the case, he would have found some way to let her know. A note ... Something ...

He was so thoughtful and considerate that way.

He wouldn't want her to wait around for him down here.

Wouldn't want to cause her any unnecessary worry.

_**Calm down Chandler ... so the guy's two minutes late for once ...**_

She admonished herself silently.

But ...

It was _**so**_ unlike Vincent.

N_**ot to be there, where he had said he would be, when he had said he would be.**_

_**He was always there.**_

_**Good old reliable Vincent..**_

_**As precise as a Swiss cuckoo clock.**_.

Catherine caught her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled pensively.

_**Damn ...**_

_**What was the point of having this wonderful empathic connection, if it only worked one way!**_

Vincent always knew where she was, what she was thinking, feeling ...

When she was in danger.

But this wonderful gift was his alone.

She could not sense anything like that from him.

Except on the very rarest of occasions.

In many ways, _**she**_ was an open book to him, even when they were miles apart.

But, even now, after almost two years, Vincent was still very much a mystery to Catherine.

This thought brought a smile to her lips.

_**She loved him.**_ _**Oh yes ...**_

But she _**barely**_ knew him._**Really**_ knew him.

There was still so much to learn about him.

And that meant that things were never dull.

Oh no. Never dull.

Catherine's smile broadened into a grin.

What was it she had once said to him?

She didn't know how to have a_**simple**_ life?

Very true ...

But Vincent was one _**huge**_ complication that she _**could not**_ live without.

_**Would not live without**_**.**

He truly was _**everything**_ ...

_**Everything ...**_

And ...

He was _**late ...**_

She let out a soft sigh and sank to the sand covered floor, her back resting against the wall, her short brown jacket riding up around her neck and shoulders, keeping her ears warm, her chocolate corduroy jeans encased legs drawn up so that she could hug them to her chest for warmth, her booted heels digging into the dirt, supporting her weight.

What else could she do but wait?

He would arrive, flustered, apologetic, and all would be revealed.

She would tease him a little.

Hold him.

To show him that she understood.

And all would be well between them.

She wasn't _**mad**_ at him, after all.

She couldn't say that she had ever _**really**_ been mad with him.

He was so thoughtful and considerate, that he never really did anything for her to get mad at, always the perfect gentleman.

_**Which sometimes made her mad anyway!**_

But she didn't stay mad for long.

_**Couldn't**_ stay mad with him.

Another five minutes.

Yes, another five minutes, then maybe she would start out for the tunnels, perhaps meet up with him on the way.

Yes.

Another five minutes ...

She stifled a yawn and rested her chin on her knuckles, drawing her knees deeper into her chest, and let out a soft, wistful sigh, allowing her eyelids to flutter closed.


	3. Chapter 3

Lordy, but it was an evil night, the young woman huddled in a short black leather jacket, thought to herself, as she tottered unsteadily down the alley.

The rain was lashing her face, her dull, straight, mouse brown hair soaked and plastered to her head, the wind cutting her in half as she splashed through deep puddles.

_**Thank God she didn't have much further to go .**_

Just around the corner up ahead .

_**Home.**_

Such as it was.

A filthy, damp, cramped apartment with a bed, a chair, a mould and cockroach infested kitchenette and a loo, and not much else.

Home.

Be it ever so hovel …. humble ...

It was hers.

And the rent was cheap, leaving her with just enough from her meager salary for life's little luxuries ...

Like food.

And vodka.

This night, she had chosen Lou's bar to indulge in her little …. hobby, but her bar tab was too high for Lou to let her indulge too much, and she had been forced to quit before she had reached the point of oblivion.

Of course, there was little or no food in the place.

But she did have a friendly little fifth of scotch cooling in the lavatory cistern, in case of emergencies.

Just like this one.

Soon.

Soon, she would be feeling no pain.

God, life was good, she thought sarcastically, tripping on a rough cobble as she came around the corner, and stumbled down the wide stone steps leading to the hovel she called home, falling to her knees and sliding down the last step, where she fell head first over a pile of rags.

Which, quiet unexpectedly, groaned ...

"Ow ..." She complained, nursing a grazed elbow, and feeling a lump already beginning to rise on her forehead with shaking fingertips, where she had collided with the far wall. "Dammit ..."

She tried to disentangle her legs from the pile of wet rags, which illicited another grunt, and she suddenly realized that there was something_**alive**_ under the sodden tangle of ripped material.

Her heart began to beat faster, roaring in her ears as she scooted back against the far wall, suddenly more sober than she wanted to be.

Tentatively, she reached out with a sneaker encased foot, and nudged the bundle of rags. It was very, very wet, very, very solid ...

And, again, it ... _**groaned **_...

She withdrew quickly, jamming herself into the corner, making her self as small as she could, her breathing coming in ragged little gasps, rain dripping from her fringe into her eyes, the cold seeping into her bones from the cold, wet square concrete landing beneath her posterior.

_**Now what the hell was she going to do?**_

To get into the apartment, she had to get passed ... him ... it ... him ...

"Hey you ..." She pushed at the pile of rags with her foot again, trying to rouse whoever, whatever it was. "Get the hell out of here. You can't stay here ..."

Another groan was her only response.

"Look ... _**shift**_ will ya!" She stammered. "Or I'll scream bloody murder, call for the cops," she warned, her teeth chattering with fear as much as from the cold.

"No ... No police ..." The words were spoken so softly, they were almost lost on the wind.

"What'd ya say?"

"No police ... help ... me ... please ..." Vincent breathed, relieved to find that he was not dead ... and that he was not alone.

Her voice was stringent, her accent ... different.

British, he thought, focusing his mind on that, instead of on the pain in his chest and shoulder and leg, squinting away tears of pain mingled with rain, from his eyes.

British, yes, but not the cultured, clipped tones he was used to hearing from Father.

His voice was so low and so husky, she barely heard the words, but she could not mistake the pain and the plea behind them, and her heart sank.

"Are ya hurt?"

"Yes ..." This on a long hiss of breath.

"Oh God! _**T'riffic**_ ..." She mumbled through chattering teeth. "Thank you so much! _**Why me?**_ Damn!" She railed at the sky. "What is this, _**kick**_ Annie in the backside week!"

She was in two minds to just shove him out of her way and make a dash for it.

But ...

The decent human being deep down inside that she had once been, would not let her.

_**The voice of her conscience.**_

_**Where's your compassion girl?**_

Her old grandmother's low, caustic, voice rang in her alcohol soaked brain.

_**You know better than to ask that, Grannie!**_

She let out a bitter little laugh and scuttled crab wise out from her hiding place.

With shaking, tentative hands, she tried to move the solid mass buried under a soaking wet, rough black cloak, finding big, broad shoulders and tufts of rain soaked hair.

He moaned, a deep, low, intense, sound, and she quickly withdrew her hand, finding it slick with what could only be blood, although the light was so poor here, she couldn't see from where.

"I guess it's your lucky day, buster. I always was a sucker for strays, especially the hurt ones ..." She let out a deep sigh of resignation. "And I guess as you're in no shape to hurt me, it's safe to take you in, but I'm warning you, any funny business, and I know how and where to kick a guy so he'll sing soprano for a month!" She warned.

She stepped over the huddled body and hunted around for her purse, which she had dropped earlier, when she had taken the tumble down the steps. She found it, lying open, the contents littering the landing close to her front door, the faint light from a distant street lamp glistening on the small bunch of brass keys that she was looking for.

She rose, on very shaky legs, and slotted the key into the lock, her hands shaking so badly that she only succeeded after the fourth attempt.

The old wood was warped and swollen, the door stuck in the frame as it always did when it was this wet, and she had to shoulder it, hard, using all her strength to get the thing to open even so much as a crack.

_**"Bugger!"**_ She gasped, leaning against the door frame. "Why is _**nothin'**_ ever easy!" She cursed, breathless, tempted to give the door a good kick.

"Please ..." The voice, as dry and whispery as fall leaves blowing along the sidewalk, beseeched. "Don't leave ..."

"I'm _**not**_ leaving you," she assured. "But I might just say at this point, that you're not much help to a lady ..." She returned to his side, squatting down beside him.

She could see now, her eyes having adjusted to the darkness, that he was lying on his stomach, one arm under his head, the other stretched out down the length of him, one knee bent awkwardly under his body, the other leg stretched out behind him, his face concealed behind shadow and that rough black hood.

"Poor bugger, been in the wars. Lucky you dropped on old Annie's doorstep ..." He could hear the compassion in her voice now.

Obviously her previous colorful language, and bravado were her way of dealing with her fear at finding him on her doorstep, her uncertainty as to whether she should involve herself in something that might only bring her trouble, and her anxiety about what to do with him.

"Can't leave you out here to catch ya death though, now can I ..." She sighed deeply.

"Thank ... you ..." Vincent gasped out raggedly.

"Can you walk?" She asked, wondering how on earth she was going to get him inside if he couldn't.

"I'll ... try ..." He panted roughly.

Vincent pushed himself to his knees, but the pain was suddenly so intense that it robbed him of his breath, bringing fresh tears to his eyes, which blurred his vision, and he flopped over on to his back with a deep groan of pain, his hood, fortunately, falling to completely conceal his face from her view.

"Geez ..." The woman exclaimed, rushing to his side again. "Hey, are you all right?" She panted softly, pushing her rain soaked hair from her face.

"No ..." Vincent groaned deeply, clutching his arms to his chest, noting now that her breath smelled very slightly of alcohol.

"Oh, sod it!" She cursed. "Like I said ... why is nothing ever easy?" She berated.

Taking a deep breath, she rose from his side and walked, somewhat unsteadily behind him, kneeling to bend over his head then slid her arms under his shoulders, until her fists poked out through both his armpits. She joined her hands across his broad, solid chest, holding tightly on to each wrist for better purchase, and heaved with all her might, pulling him backward toward the open door.

Realizing her intention, a grimace of pain on his face, Vincent dug his booted heels into the slippery concrete surface of the small square landing, and pushed backward with all his might, as she pulled him backward for a second time.

After what seemed like an eternity of heaving and pulling and straining, both finally collapsed in a soggy heap in the centre of the dark room, gasping and panting raggedly, muscles shaking, burning and quivering from the effort.

Vincent's breath was coming in short, labored gasps, and the pain was more than he could bear, his whole body feeling as though it was on fire ...

She sat still for a long time, trying to catch her breath, listening to his labored breathing with a heavy heart.

She was getting more sober with the passing of every minute, and more aware of just how sick her unexpected 'guest' was.

_**God, what had she let herself in for!**_

She couldn't move, badly winded by the effort to drag him in out of the rain, but her vodka befuddled brain, not quite as befuddled as it might have been on any other night though, was quickly shaking off the effects of the alcohol, and presenting her with the facts.

He was badly hurt.

He had a wound that was bleeding profusely. She could still feel the stickiness of his blood on her fingers, her palms.

His chest.

Yes ... Probably ...

Or his shoulder ...

And, he had been lying out there in the wind and rain for God knows how long.

He could have caught a chill.

Pneumonia.

Secondary infection in the wound.

He was in a _**lot**_ of trouble.

And she was all that stood between him and death.

She may be tipsy.

But she wasn't so, _**soused**_ that she didn't know what she had to do.

He _**badly**_ needed help.

And was just fortunate enough to have landed on the doorstep of one person who _**could**_ help him.

Annie Benson.

Formerly _**Dr Annie Benson..**_

Dragging air into her starving lungs, Annie crawled over to the front door, which was still wide open, exposing them to the harsh, bitter wind and after using the handle to pull herself up on to her feet, closed it firmly, shutting out the howling of the wind and the driving rain.

She secured the lock, then the deadlock and then fastened the two heavy duty chains in place, at the top and the bottom of the door, her fear not so much for the few belongings that she had that might be worth stealing, but for her safety, in the dead of night in this rough neighborhood.

A woman alone could never be _**too**_ careful.

No-one around here knew that she had been a doctor, but if they even suspected for one moment that she might have drugs in the place.

_**No, she couldn't be too careful..**_

"Annie ... Annie ... Annie ..." She muttered letting out a deep sigh, leaning heavily against the door. "You're too soft for your own good ..." She sighed, pushing her rain soaked hair back from her face, and reached out for the light switch.

Dull yellow light illuminated the small room, with it's battered, old fashioned closet with twin doors, double bed and a small bedside table, on which sat a dusty lamp, and an old fashioned alarm clock, which, she suddenly noted, irritatingly ticked in time to her thudding heartbeat, and four, small china thimbles, with flowers and butterflies painted on them, her only concession to ornamentation in the whole place.

The carpet was shabby and threadbare, a serviceable rust color, the only other furniture being a rickety old straight backed chair and a small, stained and chipped dark wood vanity unit. The walls were faded, old nicotine, to match the paint work, and there was an unmistakable odor of damp and mould in the air.

At one end of the room was a small, curtained off section, which concealed the loo and a small, stained wash basin, and stained enameled bathtub with a leaky shower head over it, and across the room from the bed was another, beaded, curtained off section, the kitchenette, with it's two small electric rings, an old fashioned deep enamel sink and two small cupboards, the only modern appliance being a battered old refrigerator that wouldn't have been out of place on a 1950's movie set.

The sound of the refrigerator's motor clicking on suddenly made her jump, as she continued to stare open mouthed at the form lying in a tangle of arms and legs, in the middle of the floor.

Lord, he was big.

This was her first thought.

Even hunched up like that, he was pretty solid and sturdy, and she already knew just how heavy he was.

She couldn't see his face because of that damned hood! What was that thing, anyway? An opera cape?

But, she could see his hair, long, very long, down to his shoulders at least she surmised, and loose. A dark, reddish gold color, and, he appeared to be wearing ... furry gloves ...

His clothes were ...

_**Weird ...**_

She began to wonder if he was some up town toff who had lost his way and had been mugged on his way to or from a fancy dress party.

The costume was very ... make do ... rough and ready ...

Who was he supposed to be?

The Phantom of the Opera?

Count Draccula?

He was awfully quiet, she suddenly noted.

And awfully still.

_**Oh God ... what if he was dead!**_

She moved quickly, dropping down beside him, instinct and long practice causing her to reach out to his neck for a pulse.

The hood suddenly fell away ...

Revealing ... Not the face of an ordinary man.

She let out a startled gasp, her breath suddenly catching in her throat.

There, before her ...

Was the face of ... a _**lion**_ ...

Rough ginger whiskers and down on the flat planes of his cheeks, and long, square jaw, a broad, slightly flattened nose and such delicate eyelashes.

His fringe was plastered to his brow and matted with blood, rivulets of rain water running down the sides of his nose, giving the impression that he was weeping.

She swallowed convulsively.

And with gentle, shaking fingers, reached out to touch that surprisingly beautiful face.

It was warm.

So was his breath.

Small, ragged little puffs that softly fanned her fingers.

He was alive.

_**And, he was no alcohol derived hallucination, that was for sure!**_

Her fingers found the pulse in his thick set neck, and found it to be thready and rapid.

In the dull light from the one bare overhead light bulb, she could see blood on his clothes, from his shoulder, a large patch of bright red, spreading quickly, and from beneath one of his legs, a patch of dark red was also staining the carpet.

"C'mon Annie, pull yourself together girl ..." She told herself sternly, and withdrew from him, heading for the small bathroom, where she flung open a small mirror fronted cabinet on the wall, and with still shaking fingers, began to rifle through the meager contents, before returning to the living area, and flinging open the vanity unit, where she reached inside for a very professional looking, if somewhat battered, physicians' bag.

It had been a long time since that had seen the light of day, she thought wryly.

"Time to see how much you've forgotten my girl, just how pickled your brain is ..." She sighed deeply, hoping that for his sake, she wasn't as far gone as she had thought.

/a\

Catherine Chandler woke with a jolt, her chin having slipped from her gloved hand, startling her awake.

"Vincent?" She called out groggily, but silence was her only reply.

A quick glance at her watch revealed that it was gone midnight, and she had been asleep for nearly an hour.

Which meant that Vincent was also late by an hour.

It was so unlike him.

There just had to be something wrong.

She couldn't have missed him.

If he had turned up whilst she had been napping, he would have stayed with her, gathered her close to keep her warm, his shoulder a comfortable pillow, watching over her, protecting her.

No.

There was definitely something wrong.

With a most unladylike curse, Catherine got to her feet, her backside numb from the cold, and her knees stiff.

Cramp in her foot caused her to do a little jig, until the blood began to flow again, and the resulting pins and needles brought a grimace to her lips, as she hobbled down the tunnel toward the golden glow of the candlelit and kerosene lanterned home tunnels.


	4. Chapter 4

The first order of business had been to put on a pot of very strong black coffee, to push away the last effects of the vodka that she had consumed, and to chase the chill from her bones, and then the kettle, for clean hot water to bathe his wounds.

Annie had shucked out of her leather jacket and rubbed her hair dry vigorously with a threadbare old blue towel, deciding that there was no point in changing her clothes until she had rid her patient of those rags, she would be just as wet and muddy at the end of the exercise .

After two large, scalding mugs of coffee, and several deep breaths, she had felt able to face up to the task ahead, and armed with a bowl of clean, tepid water, bandages, sticky tape, scissors and towels, she had set about her task.

It was easier than she had thought, her patient very soft and floppy in his unconscious state, offering no resistance to the exploration of her gentle hands as they sought out his injuries and removed his clothes, long experience having taught her that it was better to just cut them off his body, he probably wouldn't thank her later, but right now, she didn't care. She wasn't up to wrestling with him to get them off in the usual way, and to do just that might cause him more pain and blood loss.

In no time at all she had a clearer picture of what she was dealing with.

He had three gunshot wounds.

Left shoulder, lower right side and left thigh.

Without too much effort, she was able to remove the bullet from his thigh, a flesh wound, clean and away from any major blood vessels.

The injury to his side was a different matter, the bullet lodged in the soft inter costal tissue between two ribs, and she could not be sure without an X ray, that he did not have a pneumothorax, _**that**_, only time would tell.

The shoulder injury was also a problem, the bullet having passed right through him, leaving a clean exit wound, but from the amount of blood, and it's bright red color, she had known immediately that it had nicked an artery, and it had taken several minutes for her to stop the bleeder.

All of this she had done without anesthesia, having nothing stronger than the scotch in the house, and _**sh**_**e** might need _**that**_ herself later, she reasoned.

But he had offered no resistance, making not a sound as she worked quickly to patch him up.

She had worked methodically, checking every beautiful, unique inch of him for evidence of other injuries, but apart from some little bruising to his chest, where he had bounced against the stone steps, which was also aggravating the problems with his breathing, and a wide cut that required a couple of stitches, just above the hairline above his left eye, she could find nothing else.

And as if what she had found wasn't bad enough, he had a fever.

His temperature was 102F and he was sweating profusely.

With tender hands, she had bathed his burning body with more clean, tepid water, and had then loosely thrown a thin grey and red checkered blanket over his beautiful nakedness.

Throughout all her pushing, pulling, prodding and probing, freeing him from his much mended array of mismatched clothing, and attending to his wounds, he had made no sound, no movement except for the irregular rise and fall of his rib cage and the ragged drawing in and expelling of breath, which continued to worry her.

It was possible that he _**did**_ have a pneuomothorax, resulting from the gunshot wound to his side and maybe the bullet had nicked the lung, but without an X ray she just couldn't be sure.

It was more likely that he had caught a chill, as indicated by the fever.

His general condition worried her greatly.

He looked to be in good physical shape over all, well nourished, but not running to fat, good muscle tone, strong white teeth, clean, healthy nails, hair ...

But he had lost a lot of blood.

Another commodity that she was short of.

And even if she _**could**_ do a transfusion, she was frightened that even her own good old O rhesus negative wouldn't do him much good.

Might even kill him.

He needed aspirin for reducing his fever, antibiotic to reduce the risk of infection, fluids to stop him from dehydrating.

_**He needed to be in a hospital..**_

But, for him, that was impossible, for obvious reasons.

_**She**_ was all that he had.

_**Poor soul..**_

Only when she was certain that there was nothing more that she could do for him for the time being, except make him more comfortable, did Annie realize just how weary she felt.

It had been a long day, starting with a full eight hour shift at the residential home for the elderly where she worked as a senior carer, then another two with the old woman whom she bathed, and fed and ran errands for as a side line to make her salary stretch just a little further, and then there had been Lou's place, and now this

Thank God tomorrow was her rostered day off.

A quick glance at the ticking alarm clock revealed that it was one thirty in the morning, and she had been working on him none stop for over an hour and a half.

She hadn't been required to work quite_** that**_ hard in a long time.

And she was out of practice.

Annie discarded the soiled towels, and his ruined clothes, along with the used medical paraphernalia in the kitchen trash can, and put on a pot of fresh coffee.

It was going to be a long night.

As she waited for the coffee to perk, Annie suddenly realized that she was shaking, her hands, her fingers, her knees.

_**Shock ...**_

A very physical reaction to a stressful situation.

Her stomach suddenly roiling, the last of the alcohol not sitting very well with the coffee that she had forced down earlier, that, and all this unaccustomed physical activity.

Annie made a dash for the loo, where she was violently sick, and still shaking, feeling the cold right down to her soul, she pulled off her filthy, blood stained, short white uniform dress and stood under a scalding shower for as long as she could stand it, all the time yearning for a stiff drink.

_**No.**_

_**Wont touch another drop until he's well.**_

She vowed silently, leaning heavily against the toilet commode, her hair wound turban style in a towel now, clad in a warm, but most unbecoming yellow flannelette night-gown and grey towelling robe, what her old grannie would have called her passion killer outfit.

_**Not another drop.**_

_**Not until he's gone.**_

It would take all her willpower.

But she wasn't a drunk.

Didn't need to be completely soused just to get through the day.

Only the odd nip, here and there.

_**Liar!**_

_**Who are you trying to kid ...**_

_**But ...**_

He_**needs**_ me.

_**Needs me sober.**_

_**Needs my skill as a healer..**_

For the first time in a long time, girl, _**someone needs you ... really needs you ... **_you can make a _**difference **_again.

Must be strong.

Tears of self revulsion and self pity stung her eyes as she became aware of just how low she had sunk.

_**What's this girl?**_

_**No gumption?**_

_**No backbone?  
**_

Her old Grannie's voice echoed in her mind again.

_**No ...**_

_**And no dignity ... and no self respect either, Grannie ... **_

_**Nonsense child ... get out there and do your stuff!**_

Hot tears slipped down on to her cheeks, and she brushed them away impatiently, only to find them replaced by a fresh crop.

Dammit! _**You can't go to pieces now!**_ A little voice shrieked in her head.

He _**needs**_ you!

_**He needs you!**_

Doesn't that mean _**something**_ to you, after all this time?

Maybe it's a sign?

_**Oh what ... like the big pink elephants ...**_

No ...

He's real ..._**Very real ...**_

_**And his need is real too, girl.**_

With still trembling fingers, she brushed away the fresh tears impatiently.

_**Go on girl, get it out of your system, then get back in there and do what needs to be done.**_

_**Salvation is at hand!**_

What do I need saving from?

_**Yourself!**_

A sudden noise from the other room cut into her thoughts, a low, intense kind of growling sound, guttural and totally animal in its quality, which brought her rushing back into the living area, to find him thrashing and flailing about on the floor the blanket twisted around his upper body, his down covered body covered in a sheen of perspiration.

She was instantly on the floor beside him, hands fighting against his to try to keep him still, to cover him with the blanket, his eyes wide open, but unseeing, beautiful, vivid blue eyes, she noted with some surprise, totally human eyes, fringed by fine, light lashes.

Intelligent eyes.

"Sh, sh ... it's all right. It's all right. You're safe ..." She tried to soothe, mindful of those powerful hands, and sharp claws, that she had washed only a short time ago. "You're safe ..."

She repeated in a soft voice, reaching out with still trembling fingers to brush his hair from his overheated cheek.

"Sh, sh, you must be still. You have a gunshot wound to your shoulder, a bleeder. if you open it up again, you could bleed to death. Please ..."

"Catherine!" He mumbled through a mouthful of chattering teeth. "Catherine!" There was such anguish in his voice, his eyes darting around unfocused, unseeing, obviously searching ...

Annie withdrew, surprised to hear a woman's name on his lips, as he continued to thrash and flail violently, delirium making him strong and unreachable, his head shaking from side to side, a snarl on his lips, revealing those wickedly sharp fangs.

_**Did he have family? A sister? A wife?**_

That thought surprised her too.

_**Lord, they must be out of their minds with worry ...**_

_**"Catherine!"**_He bellowed.

"No ... no ... my name is Annie. _**Annie Benson**_ ..." She spoke slowly in soft, reassuring tones. "Listen to me, I found you, outside, in the rain. Do you remember? You _**must**_ lie still. You _**must**_ be quiet. You're safe ..." She assured. "But you're very sick. I can take care of you, but I need you to lie still, and keep quiet. Do you understand?"

She reached out and stroked his cheek very gently, in a slow, reassuring rhythm.

"There, there, sh, sh, all right. It's all right. I'm here ..."

It took several minutes of this repetitive nonsense, like talking to a frightened child, but eventually the softness of her voice must have penetrated the fog of delirium in his brain, for he stopped thrashing about, with only the occasional movement of his head from side to side, his breath rattling in his throat, rough whiskered cheeks puffing in and out raggedly.

"There now ..." She gently pressed the flat back of her hand against his brow and cheek, feeling the heat of his fever radiating from his burning flesh.

She wished that she dared to give him a shot of antibiotic and painkiller, force some soluble aspirin down his throat.

But he was so unlike any man that she had ever laid eyes on.

She had no idea what she was dealing with.

And, despite her good intentions, she might end up killing him.

No, she couldn't risk giving him anything until she could ask him about his medical history.

"Sh, sh. Let's just hope you're as strong as you look ..." She sighed as she gently pushed a tendril of perspiration dampened hair from his brow, and laid a cold, damp cloth against his overheated flesh.


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn't long before Catherine had descended deep enough into the labyrinth to hear the tapping and clattering of chatter on the pipes. General chit chat most of it, her brain translating brief snatches here and there, as she tried to concentrate on safely finding her way to Vincent's chamber, without walking, or falling headlong into one of Mouse's traps.

When she reached Vincent's chamber, it's layout familiar and welcoming, it was to find it empty of the man himself, illuminated by several flickering candles, the beautiful arch of stained glass casting an eerie yellow light over the big bed, which was covered in patchwork and scatter cushions.

The book that he had been reading lay on the table in the centre of the chamber, a well thumbed black leather bound copy of Alexandre Dumas' _**The Three Musketeers**_, but there was no sign that he had left her a note.

Catherine sat down heavily on the soft bed and let out a deep sigh of exasperation, then rose to her feet quickly, and marched the short distance down a narrow, rock walled passageway to Father's chamber.

Of course, the older man knew that Catherine was Below, had heard it on the pipes some time ago, but, as she came marching into his chamber, he was surprised to find that Vincent was not with her.

"Where's Vincent?" They said in unison, then frowned at each other.

"I thought he was with you ..." They said together, then sighed expressively.

"Shall we begin again?" Father smiled softly. "Good evening, Catherine." He limped over to her and pressed a soft kiss to her flushed cheek.

"Hello, Father ..." She greeted him politely. "I'm sorry to barge in like this ..."

"That's all right my dear. I gather that you were looking for Vincent."

"Yes."

"But, I thought that he had plans to meet you, this evening ..."

"He did," Catherine sighed heavily. "But that was hours ago ..."

"And he never turned up?" Father frowned, concern edging his tone now.

_**Dear God, what now?**_

"No. I waited. Actually, I fell asleep ..." Catherine confessed softly. "But he never showed. Father ... Something is wrong ..." Tears suddenly welled up in her beautiful big grey eyes, and Father could not fail to see her distress.

"Oh, come now, Catherine, you don't know that. Vincent ran an errand for me earlier. He went to take food and medicine to one of our elderly helpers, Isaac Blum. Perhaps Isaac was unwell, and Vincent didn't like to leave him ..." Jacob Wells suggested rather more hopefully than he felt.

It just wasn't like Vincent not to try to get word to him, especially if Isaac was so sick.

"He would have sent a message on the pipes," Catherine reasoned.

"Yes ..."

"Has he?" Catherine quizzed. Father frowned back at her absently. "Has he sent a message on the pipes, Father?"

"Er ... no. I don't believe he has. Pascal would have come and told me himself, if Vincent had. He knows how I worry ..." Jacob explained.

"He's in trouble, Father," Catherine began to prowl back and forth across the chamber, and despite his concern, Jacob could not help smiling softly to him self.

_**I wonder where she got that from ... **_

He mused silently.

"Catherine, please, sit down and calm your self," Jacob advised. "You don't know anything for certain," he watched her pace back and forth. "Do you?" He frowned suddenly.

Catherine stopped then, and regarded him with steady grey eyes.

"The empathic link?" She shrugged. "No. I can't _**feel**_ anything from him ..." She confessed softly.

"No, of course not. That is Vincent's gift, not yours ..." Jacob sighed. "Pity," he sat down heavily behind his book covered desk. "It's a filthy night up there, by all accounts, Catherine, perhaps he has simply taken shelter." He suggested, not wanting to let on to her just how concerned he really was.

"No! He's in trouble. I just know it, Father. What shall we do?"

"What _**can**_ we do? He could be anywhere ..." Jacob Wells pointed out. "He may still be with Isaac. He may even be waiting for you at the threshold in your basement ..."

"I'll go and look for him. Tell me where Isaac lives ..."

"Williamsburg, Brooklyn, but, Catherine, you can't go there alone, at this time of night. Please, let me get Pascal to contact one of our other helpers who lives in the same area, Clifford Wilson. We will ask him to look in on Isaac, and find out if Vincent is still there ..."

"Jacob, I can't just sit around and do nothing," Catherine insisted.

"You won't be doing nothing, Catherine," he assured.

"I'm frightened, Father ..." Catherine confessed raggedly, tears brimming in her lovely wide eyes.

"I've been frightened for him every day of his life, Catherine, that doesn't change just because he is a grown man ..." He let out a long, deep sigh. "But, we can't rush into things, act rashly. When we are sure that there is cause for concern, then we will use every means at our disposal to find him, until then, we wait ... hope ... pray ..."

"I'm sorry, Father, you're right, but I just can't help thinking that something is terribly wrong, that he's in trouble, that he's hurt …. needs me."

"I hope you're wrong, Catherine," he could suddenly hear the pain in his voice then.

"So do I, Father, but ..." Her voice trailed away then.

She could not shake the feeling of dread and foreboding that had settled in her heart since leaving Vincent's chamber, but the last thing that she wanted to do was to rob him of hope.

"Go back to your basement, Catherine, see if he showed up at last. If he did, send him back with a flea in his ear, by all means, and if he didn't, use the pipes to let us know ..." He advised sagely. "I will get Pascal on to it, right away, Catherine. I know how deeply you care about him, but let us deal with this in our own way, at least to begin with. I'll get word to you, let you know when he is safe."

"Please don't shut me out, Jacob ..." She begged.

"Catherine, you are not the only one who loves him, and you have a life Above that you must continue with."

"I can't just go on as though everything is perfectly normal!" She exclaimed in outrage.

"You don't know for sure that it isn't," Jacob countered softly "Please, Catherine, trust me. When you can do something to help, I will let you know."

"Jacob ..."

"Please, Catherine," he implored. "Go home. Get some rest. I will be in touch later. I promise ..."

She glared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then gloved fists clenched at her side, angrily marched out of his chamber without another word.

After her hasty departure, Jacob Wells sent out a message on the pipes to Pascal, their communications expert, asking him to put word out on the pipes to stop all traffic, while they listened for a message from Vincent, some vital clue, perhaps.

Or word from Catherine .

And, a little while later, Catherine's message came through.

Vincent had _**not**_ shown up at her basement threshold after all.

Jacob fancied that he could still hear the anger in her tapping on the master pipe, and it was with a heavy heart that he sent word to Pascal to send a message to Clifford Wilson.

/a\

Catherine went straight from her basement to her balcony terrace, flinging open the French windows and marching to the low wall, where she leaned heavily against the wet brickwork, and allowed her tears free reign, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, allowing the scalding tears to slip between her lashes and roll down her pale, cool cheeks.

"Oh Vincent ..." She whispered between silent sobs. "Vincent ... Where are you? _**Where are you?"**_ She brushed at her tears impatiently with her fingertips, but more quickly replaced them. "Oh God ... _**where are you**_!" She sniffed. "I love you. Reach out to me, Vincent, _**reach out**_. I am here. Do you know how scared I am? Do you? _**Where are you!"**_

Catherine opened her eyes, and through a blur of tears, saw a myriad pinpoints of light dotting the city skyline, which slowly swam into focus as the tears brimmed over and ran down her cheeks.

Vincent could be behind any one of those lights.

Or he could be lying injured somewhere.

Above, unable to reach safety.

Below, unable to reach out to tap out even a simple SOS on a pipe.

Or ...

He could be ...

_**Dead**_ ...

No!

_**No!**_

_**Not that!**_

_**I won't allow myself to think of that!**_

More scalding tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks, mixing with the rain that she was totally oblivious of.

_**But ….**_

If ...

He was ... dead ...

_**She wouldn't know it ...**_

_**Wouldn't believe it ...**_

_**Not until she saw his body ...**_

_**No!**_

_**He's alive!**_

He _**has**_ to be!

_**Vincent!**_

Her mind screamed, reaching out across the city, but there was nothing for her to 'sense', no hope for her to hold on to in the form of a 'sense' of him.

"Vincent ..." She mumbled thickly then. "Hold on to my love. _**Hold on to it**_, let it keep you alive ..." She squeezed more tears from her eyes. "And remember, I love you, _**always ...**_ always ..."

A shiver suddenly ran down her spine then, the wind whipping her long, blonde hair into a frenzy around her shoulders and her face.

"Hear me, Vincent. I love you ... always ..."

Catherine summoned all her strength then, and turned her back on the city skyline, forcing her legs to carry her back inside the apartment, where she closed the French windows with a soft click, and leaned against them heavily, as she gave into fresh sobs of anguish, and still more scalding tears.

/a\

_**"Catherine!"**_

/a\

She was standing on the other side of the bridge that spanned the Whispering Gallery.

Smiling ...

Her big grey eyes full of love and warmth.

Her arms open. Invitingly.

"I love you, Vincent ... _**always**_ ..." She spoke softly, gazing at him with so much love.

She looked so beautiful.

Like an angel.

Clad in some frothy white confection of a gown, falling to her pretty little ankles in soft waves of lace, a slit up one leg, revealing an expanse of creamy, white thigh, her arms bare, the neckline of the gown low cut at the front and very alluring.

The air around her flickering with candlelight, shimmering with the heat from those candles, filled with softly echoing voices.

Music ...

The wind ...

Laughter ...

His heart was pounding in his ears.

"I am here, Vincent," she cooed breathily. "Reach out to me. _**Reach out**_ ..." She enticed, reaching out a beautiful, bare arm toward where he stood on the other side of the bridge.

Suddenly, Paracelsus appeared out of nowhere, behind her, drawing a thin, shiny steel blade from the folds of his black cloak, and raising it to press it's razor sharp edge against the delicate white flesh of Catherine's long, elegant throat.

_**"Catherine!"**_

"Vincent ... _**Vincent**_ ..."

_**"Catherine!" **_

He took a step forward, his only thought to rescue Catherine from the clutches of the evil one, but as he stepped upon the bridge, the ancient, rotting wooden slats beneath his feet snapped dryly, sending up flurries of dust and splinters.

And Vincent found himself falling ...

Falling ...

Forever ...

Dropping like a stone into the bottomless abyss, Paracelsus maniacal laughter ringing in his ears.

_**"Catherine!"**_


	6. Chapter 6

"_**Catherine!"**_

His loud cry awoke Annie from a light slumber, and she found him thrashing and flailing about, a wild, feral quality to those wide, startlingly blue eyes now, burning fever bright ...

Immediately she was on her knees on the floor beside him.

"Sh, sh,"

Leaning over him, she tried to capture his arms, but he was too strong for her.

"Hey, hey, sh, please, sh ..."

This time he did not respond to her soft, soothing words, but continued to struggle against her, raining blows against her upper body and shoulders with his balled fists.

"Catherine ... Grrr ... Catherine ... run ... Catherine ... run ... Argrrrr ..." Top lip twisting wickedly into a viscous snarl ... his cheek puffing in and out violently, his breath a rattling growl in his throat.

"Run Catherine ... Paracelsus ... run ... run ... _**run**_!" He was gasping, thrashing about violently.

"What?" Annie frowned. "_**Parachutist**_?" She echoed. She had heard some wild ravings from patients in delirium before, but ...

What disturbing images was his fevered brain presenting him with, she wondered?

"Catherine! _**Paracelsus**__ ...__** run**__ ..._"

"Paracelsus ... the alchemist?" Annie pondered, remembering her Browning, as she fought to hold on to his flailing arms, noting as she did so, the patch of bright red staining the centre of the dressing on his shoulder. "Damn!"

He was bleeding again.

She just had to do something to calm him down.

But short of _**slugging**_ him one in the _**jaw**_ ...

She didn't know how she was going to achieve that.

She was already on her knees beside him, leaning over him ...

All she could think to do was straddle his broad waist and sit on him, physically holding him down, her shoulders and upper body continuing to take the full brunt of at least another half a dozen blows from his flailing arms as she reached out to take his burning face between gentle hands.

"It's all right. You're safe. Sh, sh. Look at me, _**look at me**_!"

She emphasized each word carefully to try to get his full attention, staring into those fever bright, blue eyes, beseeching him to understand.

"You_**must**_ lie _**still**_. Do you understand? _**You must lie still**_. Your shoulder is bleeding again. Sh, sh. Quietly, quietly, please. Hush now, hush ..."

At this rate, he would have half the neighborhood pounding on her door.

He tried to shake her hands free from his face a couple of times, before quieting, his arms falling to his sides, his breath coming in short snorts down his nose as she gently and rhythmically stroked his rough whiskered cheek with gentle fingertips.

"There, it's all right. It's all right. I'm here ..."

"Catherine ..."

"Sh ... sh ..."

His fever was worse, his flesh burning her fingers as she continued to stroke his rough chin, cheeks, forehead.

"Catherine ..."

"Hush now. Sleep. Sleep ..." She encouraged softly, pushing perspiration dampened hair from his brow. "Trust me, please ..."

She watched as his eyelids began to droop then fluttered closed, and he expelled a deep breath in a long hiss, his neck muscles suddenly very slack, his head lolling to one side as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Annie let out a deep sigh and carefully laid his head back down on the floor, then rose quickly and moved away from him toward the kitchenette, where she filled a bowl with clean, tepid water and carried that, and fresh towels back to where he lay, kneeling beside him to gently bathe his overheated body, laying a cold, damp washcloth to his brow, as with infinitely gentle hands, she sponged him down again, before covering him with the thin blanket once more.

She really was going to have to find a way to keep him calm, she decided, carrying the bowl of water and wet towels to the kitchenette, then returned to the living area with fresh dressings and the other paraphernalia for his shoulder.

Upon investigation, she found that the bleeding wasn't as bad as she had first thought, although the wound had reopened, and was oozing arterial blood. She applied pressure to back and front of the wound until the bleeding stopped, and then covered it with a clean dressing before going on to check his other wounds.

When she was done at last, Annie picked up the blankets and pillows from her bed, dropping them on the floor beside him, then made up a make shift bed beside him, curling up close to him, to drape one arm comfortingly across his flat belly.

All the time she had been tending to him, he had been muttering incoherently under his breath, tossing his head occasionally, his top lip pulling back to reveal those wickedly sharp fangs, twisting in a silent snarl, but at least the thrashing had stopped.

As she pressed herself against his hot flesh, he stopped mumbling, and seemed to take some comfort from her nearness, and as she finally drifted off into a fitful slumber, he was, at last, quiet.


	7. Chapter 7

Clifford Wilson was habitually an early riser, and was standing before the bathroom mirror, shaving, when he heard a soft tapping emanating from the bathroom plumbing.

Clad in socks, string vest and pants, chin covered in creamy lather, razor hovering close to his cheek, Clifford listened intently to the message, then, picking up a small enamel mug, slowly tapped out his response on the U - shaped pipe under the wash basin.

A portly man in his late fifties, he wasn't renowned for his speed, but Clifford hurriedly rinsed the soap from his face and returned to his bedroom to finish dressing.

It was still only five thirty when he let himself out of his apartment, huddled inside a heavy black donkey jacket, a cloth cap pulled down low over his ears, thick woolen mittens covering his big hands.

Clifford knew Isaac Blum only from the odd occasions when their paths had met Below and from their brief conversations at various Winterfest celebrations over the years.

He had liked the man, and was genuinely sorry to hear that he was so sick.

It was still dark outside at this time of the morning, and the streets were still very quiet, glistening with rain water in the soft white light cast by street lights.

Clifford liked this time of day best, always had, liked the solitude and isolation of the empty streets, finding them a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle that was New York City in the daytime.

He had worked most of his life in markets, starting out as a boy in the meat market, along side his father, lugging pig and sheep carcasses, and sides of beef around all day long, laughing and kidding around with the other men, feeling like he _**was**_ someone.

Later, he had graduated to the fish market, learning new skills, until a back problem had forced him to retire on medical grounds a couple of years ago.

Even so, he hadn't been able to break the habit of waking and rising early.

He hurried the six blocks to Isaac Blum's run down building, glad that the rain had eased off now, but the wind was still viscous, buffeting him each time he was forced to leave the protection of the surrounding buildings to cross between blocks.

A further communication from Pascal, before he had departed, had indicated how he could gain access if Isaac was too sick to answer the door, and if Vincent wasn't there to let him in.

There were no lights on in the building when Clifford arrived, and all was very quiet as he strode down hallways and climbed two flights of stairs to Isaac's bed sit, no sounds from any of the rooms he passed, of people rising and beginning their daily routine, it was still too early for most people.

Clifford knocked softly on Isaac's door, and called out in a low voice. "Isaac, it's Clifford Wilson. Isaac?" There was no response from within.

"Vincent? Are you there?" It was still dark outside, so it was just possible that the younger man had not set out for home just yet.

However, after several more gentle taps on the door, there was still no response from within.

Clifford searched around the top of the door frame with his fingers, until he found the small brass key, exactly where Pascal had said it would be, and although the lock its self was stiff, he was soon able to gain entry.

The room was dark, no ambient light from the street filtering in through the drapes.

"Isaac?" Clifford called softly, not wanting to frighten the sick old man. "It's Clifford Wilson. Jacob asked me to stop by. Isaac?"

It was obvious to him by now that Vincent was not there, and he left out a soft sigh.

The room was eerily quiet.

Clifford fumbled around the door frame and the wall until he located the light switch and clicked it on.

The light that filled the room from a bare bulb in the centre of the ceiling, barely chased the shadows away, but it was enough for Clifford Wilson to see that poor Isaac Blum had lost his struggle to hold on to body and soul sometime during the night.

He lay still, in the centre of the small bed, his face relaxed in repose, his skin gaunt, and tinged with blue, and cold to the touch when Clifford reached out to check for a pulse.

Poor Isaac ...

And poor Jacob.

He would be so upset when he heard.

He would also be worried that there was no sign of Vincent.

Although, further investigation revealed that the younger man had indeed been here, the food and medication left within easy reach.

Clifford went to the small kitchen area, and using a dirty spoon that he found on the draining board, carefully knocked against the pipes beneath the sink, a precise set of taps, conveying his message to his friends Below.

The answer when it came back a few minutes later was brief:

_**All received. Will pass on. Thanks.**_

With a heavy heart, Clifford then went over to the old fashioned telephone, picked up the receiver and dialed for the operator.

"Ambulance please ..." He spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent, and gave the woman on the other end of the line the details, and the address.

The only thing he could do for Isaac Blum now was to see to it that his earthly remains were disposed of with dignity, and that meant dealing with the ambulance people, maybe even the cops, and the people from the funeral home - none of them pleasant tasks, but ones that Clifford would do gladly, for Isaac, or any of the other helpers he knew Above, because, as a childless bachelor, he knew that some day, someone would be called upon to do the same for him.

The calls made, Clifford went outside into the hallway and lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a long stream before taking another deep pull.

At least now Jacob would know of Isaac's fate, and that someone would be dealing with the necessary details, with compassion and dignity.

But they still didn't have any answers about Vincent.

Was he safe?

Was he well?

Was he even still alive?

Clifford hoped so. He sincerely hoped so, and not only because he rather liked Vincent, admired him, but because Jacob Wells had lost one good friend this night.

And if anything had happened to his beloved son ...

It might just kill him too ...

/a\

"Father ..." Pascal's soft voice wafted into Jacob Wells chamber from the far entrance way, as he stood, pensive and shy, in the vestibule, just above the four metal steps that led to the lower level of Father's chamber.

Father was seated at his desk, his head buried in his hands, and Pascal had no desire to intrude on this very personal moment of grief.

He had merely come to check that Father had intercepted Clifford Wilson's message ...

And to see that he was all right.

"It's all right, Pascal ..." Jacob Wells sighed deeply, running gnarled old hands through his hair roughly, looking up then at the younger man.

"You heard?"

"Yes, I heard, but thank you for coming by, Pascal ..."

At any other time, if he had received such news, it would have been Vincent who would have come to check on him.

"I'm sorry there wasn't anything more concrete about Vincent, Father, but at least we know that he did get as far as Isaac's place ..."

"And left again, before ... he died. Vincent would never have left him alone, would have sent a message to me, if Isaac had been dead when he arrived," Jacob sighed heavily again, absently scratching at the growth of beard on his chin, then rose stiffly from his seat.

"Has there been any word at all, Pascal?" He asked hopefully.

"I'm sorry ..." Pascal sighed too now. "Father, Vincent is ... Vincent is very smart ... and he is also very careful. He knows the dangers of going Above. I'm sure he's fine ..."

"I wish I had your faith, Pascal, but I'm very much afraid that Catherine was right. If he were safe and well, Vincent would have found a way to contact us, just a few words to put our minds at rest. That is just the way he is. He would not cause me, us, undue worry. No ..." Jacob sighed deeply. "Something is terribly wrong, Pascal, and he is all alone out there ..."

Pascal could hear the worry and the pain in Father's voice now, and his heart went out to the older man.

They all relied so much on Vincent, without even realizing it, until he wasn't there anymore, for his gentle companionship, the protection he afforded all of them, and their fragile existence, for his wisdom and his love.

Life without Vincent just didn't bare thinking about.

Vincent and Pascal had grown up side by side, boyhood friends, brothers in spirit, close without being intrusive, but not as close as Vincent had been with Devin.

Still, he and Vincent were still friends, still close. Advisers and confidants, loving each other and trusting each other.

"Dear God, Pascal, what if he has been caught?" Father said in a small, anguished voice.

"Then we'll get to hear of it, sooner or later, and we will find him, and rescue him."

"Pascal," Jacob turned to him, with infinitely sad, sapphire eyes. "If they've caught him Above, it's already too late. He's as good as dead ..."

"Don't say that Father. Vincent is an extraordinary being. Man. And given a chance, he has an extraordinary effect on everyone that he meets. It's his gift. A magic that is unique to him, as though his very soul touches people ..." Pascal faltered suddenly, unable to find the words he wanted, but Jacob Wells understood.

Pascal was right.

It _**was**_ a gift.

Magical.

Five minutes in Vincent's charming company and even the toughest nuts forgot their fear, hatred, bias ...

Vincent was indeed an extraordinary being. Man ...

But, there were evil men in the world Above, driven by greed and the need for notoriety.

Men such as they would see Vincent as a means to an end.

But there were other men, weaker men, cruel men who would see Vincent as a target for their hatred, their need for blood, their need to destroy what they did not understand, could _**never**_ understand ...

"We know Vincent, Pascal, and we love him, but in the world Above, it's people act first and ask questions later. Their first act ... their first instinct toward anything that is unusual ... _**different**_ ... not like them ... is to kill ... destroy ... hurt it before it can hurt them ..." Jacob's tone was bitter, as he let out a long, ragged sigh, and Pascal knew that he was right.

"Vincent has instincts too, Father. He has the instinct to survive. He wont go quietly. He'll fight ..."

"If he's not sick. Hurt ... "

"Even so ..."

"I know Pascal, and I bless you for your optimism. I suppose that over the years, I have just grown so used to fearing the worst for him, and of course, we are only assuming that he is still Above."

Father began to limp back and forth across the dimly lit chamber, his expression thoughtful.

"For all we know, Vincent might have made it back Below and is lying somewhere, possibly sick, possibly injured, in some distant tunnel ... chamber ..." He mused aloud.

"Then our next priority should be to search every inch of the tunnels," Pascal suggested helpfully. "I know it's a next to impossible task, but we know roughly where he was, and where he was going. We can concentrate our efforts there to start then work our way back toward the home tunnels, if necessary. _**Everyone**_ will want to help ..."

There was suddenly a bright spark of hope in the small man's big, dark eyes.

"If Vincent_**is**_ Below, we_**will**_ find him." He declared enthusiastically. "We will find him, Father ..."

He turned to leave then, but suddenly remembered another reason why he had come to see Father, and half turned back to face the older man.

"Oh, by the way, sentries report that Catherine is on her way down ..."

"Thank you, Pascal." Father sighed forlornly.

"She ... she truly loves Vincent ... doesn't she, Father ..."

"Yes. I'm just now beginning to realize just how much, Pascal ..." He smiled weakly.

Who would ever have dreamed that such a love could exist?

Sometimes his heart soared with pride and wonder that his son had found such a woman as Catherine Chandler.

But there were other times, when he could see only pain and heartache ahead for both of them, for one day, it surely must end.

Catherine would, he felt sure, some day, find a man from the world Above that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, have children with ...

And where would that leave Vincent?

_**No, he wouldn't think about that now ...**_

_**That**_ pain was for another day.

Hopefully, a very far off day.

"Then it's only right that she want to be close to him. Where else can she get a sense of him? And where else can she share her worry, and her fear, than with the other people who know exactly how she is feeling, because they feel it too?"

"You are a wise man, Pascal. Thank you." Jacob bestowed a weak smile on the younger man.

Of course Pascal was right about Catherine.

_**How could I have been so insensitive?**_ Jacob admonished himself silently.

Of course she was worried.

And of course she needed a 'sense' of Vincent, to feel closer to him.

And she also needed a sense of purpose, he realized now.

Needed to be doing something.

They all did.

And he didn't need to be alone in his worry and fear.

Catherine felt those things too.

Perhaps they would draw comfort from each other.

Perhaps this would bring them closer.

Help each to understand the other, and what Vincent meant to each of them.

Nothing, Jacob knew, would please Vincent more, than that he accept Catherine, as a daughter, and love her as he loved Vincent him self, as Vincent loved her ...

"Should I put a message out for everyone to gather here?" Pascal enquired. "We need to organize a search, don't want everyone running around covering the same ground over and over. We'll need to be methodical. Assign different sections of the tunnels to different groups."

"Yes, Pascal. You see to that, will you ..."

"Of course, Father. Are you all right?" Pascal frowned, noting the weariness in the way that Father was standing, leaning heavily against his twisted old walking stick, and the haggard look on his darkly bearded face.

"No, Pascal," Jacob sighed deeply. "And I won't be 'all right' until we find Vincent ..." He admitted raggedly.

"We will find him, Father ..." Pascal assured again.

"I hope you're right, Pascal. I truly hope you're right ..."


	8. Chapter 8

Instead of taking the familiar, direct route to Father's or Vincent's chambers, Catherine, clad in denim jeans and a thick black turtleneck sweater, beneath a short black waterproof jacket, and low heeled black leather boots, made her way along less familiar passageways, to Mouse's chamber, recalling as she tentatively picked her way through the labyrinth, that her first encounter with the sandy haired, blue eyed young inventor had been after falling into one of his traps, and landing, after a very long drop, on her derrière, amidst a pile of cushions, in his chamber.

Vincent had been in trouble on that occasion too, she recalled.

He and Father had been trapped in The Maze by a rock fall, after one of the children had been hurt climbing the water eroded walls.

Vincent hadn't been hurt, but Father had sustained a rather nasty head injury, and they had been trapped for so long that there had been a very real fear that their air supply had been running out ...

And it had been young Mouse who had determined that there was another way to gain access to the Maze, and had helped to rescue them.

Using the explosives that _**she**_ had purloined from Elliot Burch.

Mouse and Vincent were good friends.

If anyone could help her in her quest, it would be Mouse.

The young man had been little more than a wild child, feral, living on his wits, stealing crumbs of food, possessing little or no language, watching the other tunnel dwellers from a safe distance.

Until Vincent had caught him, won his trust, taught him to speak, earned his friendship and his love.

In return, Mouse was fiercely devoted to Vincent.

And had been prepared to put his own life on the line to save Vincent.

_**No greater love hath any man ...**_

Catherine thought, tears suddenly springing to her eyes.

What other man did she know who could inspire such love, loyalty, devotion.

_**Father ...**_

_**Of course ...**_

That figures.

Jacob Wells had instilled his own strong principles and morals into Vincent.

But it went deeper than education or upbringing, nurture or nature ...

It was part of Vincent's soul.

It was part of that unique_** something**_ that meant that you couldn't help but respond to Vincent on some deep subconscious level, inspired to feel trust, acceptance. awe ...

When, instead, presented with the evidence of your own eyes, your brain, each telling you that you should be afraid, that you should hate, that you should strike out run ...

To trust in Vincent.

To accept Vincent.

Was to give yourself the greatest gift of all.

For your life would never be quite the same again.

_**Oh Vincent ...**_

Catherine suddenly leaned against a rough rock wall, sobbing dryly.

_**Vincent ... do you hear me?**_

Do you _**feel**_ me?

_**Vincent?**_

_**Pull yourself together Chandler!**_ She told herself sternly_._

_**Have a nervous break down next week, when Vincent is safe ... home..**_

_**It's a luxury that you cannot afford right this minute, so quit, right now!**_

Have to find Mouse.

Yes.

Concentrate on_** that**_, Chandler! She admonished herself sternly, pulling in several deep breaths to try to calm herself.

Find Mouse.

/a\

It seemed to Father that the entire community had crammed its self into his chamber that early February morning, everyone from old Eli, who rarely left his chamber these days because his eyesight was so poor, and his hip so stiff with arthritis that he could barely manage to walk across his chamber unaided, to the very youngest, sleepy eyed children.

Friends of Vincent's one and all.

All waiting with baited breath for word of the gentle giant who was their friend and defender.

Each watched him expectantly, as he stood before the gathering, leaning heavily against his walking stick, and looking older and more frail than any of them cared to remember, men and women standing shoulder to shoulder, both up on the gallery and in the lower level, children of all ages sitting on the spiral metal staircase, their legs dangling through the railings, all waiting for him to address them.

Pascal was beside him, filling in the small lapses when Jacob simply could not go on, overcome by emotion, until at last, the situation was explained, the plan put to the gathering, and every last man woman and child had been assigned to a particular group, and a particular section of their subterranean world.

Everyone had a kind word, a word of encouragement as they filed past Jacob Wells, patting his hand, or simply squeezing his shoulder reassuringly, as they set out to start searching.

The helpers Above had been contacted earlier and had started their search before first light, but it had yielded nothing helpful.

As his chamber began to empty, Jacob suddenly realized that there was one face that he could _**not**_ recall seeing at the gathering.

_**Catherine ...**_

Pascal had been so sure that the sentries had seen her making her way down.

But she hadn't been at the gathering, Jacob was sure of that.

Lord ...

_**I hope she hasn't gone and gotten herself lost too!**_

_**That would never do.**_

Jacob let out a deep sigh.

Didn't he have enough to worry about, without fretting that Catherine had fallen into the abyss?

"Father?" Pascal's light touch on his forearm, and his soft voice broke into Jacob Well's thoughts. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Catherine ... I didn't see her here ..."

"Me neither, come to think of it ..." Pascal grew thoughtful then. "Wait just a moment, Father ..."

Pascal walked across the room to the nearest set of pipes and tapped out a very succinct string of metallic sounds, then waited patiently for a reply.

It came back in no time, bringing a frown to Pascal's high brow.

"What is it?" Father asked roughly.

"Sentries report seeing Catherine heading in the general direction of Mouse's chamber," Pascal reported with a frown.

"Mouse? What could she possibly want with him?"

"I don't know, but Mouse was here a little while ago, and he was very anxious about Vincent. Rushed off before I could tell him to go with Jamie and Kipper ..." Pascal sighed deeply. "I don't think I will ever understand that boy. I thought he was Vincent's friend ..."

"He is, Pascal, but he is also a law unto himself. Perhaps that is why Catherine wants to find him? Perhaps she thinks that Mouse might know something, that perhaps he has shared secrets with Vincent that Mouse couldn't divulge to us?"

"But we all know Vincent just as well as Mouse, some of us better. Doesn't Catherine realize that whatever Mouse might think of, we can think of too?" Pascal reasoned.

"Who knows what goes on in either of their minds?" Jacob Wells rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation. "Pascal, please ask the sentries to keep their eyes open. It wouldn't do for anything to happen to Catherine. Vincent would never forgive us, me ..."

"Of course, Father. I will see to it right away. I'd better get back to the Pipe Chamber ..."

"Of course, Pascal, and Pascal, thank you. I've really appreciated your support at this time ..."

"You're welcome, Father ..."

/a\

When Catherine eventually found her way to Mouse's chamber, it was to find it absent of the young tinkerer himself, only Arthur, his pet raccoon was visible, hunting for tidbits of food amongst the clutter of gadgets, gizmos and other paraphernalia on Mouse's work table.

Catherine ignored Arthur and paced up and down for several minutes, then pulled up a rickety old chair and sat down, resting her elbows on her knees, her chin on her gloved knuckles, but after several minutes of this forced inactivity, she could sit still no longer, and began to pace back and forth across the chamber once more.

_**I really must stop doing this!**_ She chided herself silently with a sigh.

_**It was getting to be a bad habit. One she knew where she had picked up ...**_

Even Joe had noticed that she had started to pace back and forth across the office when something was bothering her, or when she was frustrated with the red tape that she seemed to run into more and more every day, which prevented her from making any progress on her work load, or with obstinate witnesses or irritating police officers who constantly misplaced paperwork or reports or even witnesses themselves.

Joe thought it amusing.

Catherine had not been amused.

She had just been ticked off at his observations.

But ...

It was a good way to work out her anger and her frustration.

Better than biting his head off, anyway.

It was dignified too.

No wonder it was Vincent's favorite way of dealing with anger, and pent up nervous energy.

_**Vincent ...**_

Yes.

Catherine had almost decided that it was a pointless exercise, waiting around here for the sometimes scatter brained young inventor, that she should have gone straight to Father, when Mouse hurtled into the chamber, almost knocking Catherine off her feet.

"Mouse ..."

"Catherine ..."

"Mouse, I need your help," Catherine gathered her wits quickly. "I'm afraid that something bad has happened to Vincent ..."

"Mouse knows ... gotta search ..." He panted breathlessly. "Catherine search too?"

"Yes ... later ... First, I need your help, Mouse. I need you to take me to Narcissa."

"No! Mouse gotta search. Need flashlight ... tools maybe ..."

He rifled through the bits and pieces cluttering his workbench, discarding some items immediately, paying only a passing interest to others, before suddenly coming to a dead stop, swiveling around on the spot to regard Catherine with undisguised awe.

"Narcissa?"

"Yes," Catherine sighed deeply, wondering where Vincent got the patience to deal with the young man, and wishing that she had a measure of it now. "I have to speak with her, Mouse." She explained slowly. "Narcissa is Vincent's friend," she added for good measure.

"Friend like Mouse? Friend like Catherine?"

"Yes, and she might be able to help us find Vincent ..."

"Nah ..." Mouse shrugged.

"Yes, Mouse, and I need your help to find her. Will you help me, please Mouse?"

"Should really be looking for Vincent ..." Mouse grew agitated once more.

"We will Mouse, but later. I promise."

When this did not work, she decided to try another approach.

"Mouse, if I _**have to**_, I _**will**_ go on my own ..." She warned, and watched as he swallowed hard, images of what Vincent would do to him if anything bad happened to Catherine, and _**he**_ could have _**prevented**_ it, obviously running through his mind in glorious Technicolor.

_**Sorry Mouse ...**_

Catherine lamented silently, wishing that she hadn't had to resort to those kind of strong arm tactics.

"I really think that Narcissa will be able to help us, maybe even be able to tell us where to look." She reasoned softly.

"Really think so?" He frowned, obviously torn between his own need to be searching for his lost friend, and his desire not to let her down.

"Yes Mouse, I really think so. When I have been in trouble in the past, Vincent has visited Narcissa, to ask for her help. He has told me about her, and I think she could help us now."

"Okay ... good. Okay, fine ..."

"You'll take me?" She couldn't believe how quickly he had acquiesced.

"Sure."

Reacting purely on instinct, Catherine reached out to the young man and gave him a brief hug, which brought a delicate flush to his pale young cheeks.

"Thank you, Mouse ..." She grinned like an idiot.

"Better go ... long way ..." He mumbled, plainly embarrassed by her show of affection.

"Okay, Mouse, I'm right behind you," she smothered a smile with a gloved hand. "Lead the way."

"Okay, good ... okay, fine ... Better not tell Father though ..."

"I agree entirely." Catherine sighed softly. "What Father doesn't know won't hurt him! C'mon Mouse, time is a wasting!"

/a\

"They're heading where?" Father frowned deeply at the note in his hand, forwarded to him from Pascal, via the hand of a young boy called Matthew. "What on earth does she expect to find down there?" He mused.

"Father?" The scruffy young urchin regarded him thoughtfully from beneath an over long dark chestnut fringe.

"It's all right, Matthew," Father waved the boy away. "Run along back to Pascal now." He advised, and the youngster didn't need telling twice as he took off at speed without a word. "And thank you," Father called after the boy, but knew that his words did not carry to the fleet footed child.

"What _**are**_ you up to Catherine? _**What are you up to ...**_"


	9. Chapter 9

Annie woke with a start, at the sound of a distant car honking its horn on the street, opening her eyes to find her face resting against his velvet, ginger, down covered chest.

She blinked rapidly, immediately alerted to the fact that something was different.

His breathing.

There was no tortured rattle of indrawn, or expelled breath.

And for an instant, her heart missed a beat, fearing the worst...

But then, she realized that his chest was indeed rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, and he was warm to the touch.

She withdrew from him slowly, feeling muscles in her neck and shoulders protest after a night spent on the floor, in an awkward position.

Her back ached too, probably from dragging him in out of the rain last night.

And her head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton wool.

I need a drink ...

_**Yes ...**_

Coffee.

_**Good and strong and black!**_

She pulled a face at the thought, that not being the way she would normally take that particular beverage, but knowing that it was the only thing that would get her started.

She yawned, and stretched carefully, trying to ease the ache in her protesting muscles, noting the slight tremor in her hand as she reached out for a robe.

She rose stiffly, then carefully rearranged the covers over her patient, her gentle fingers reaching up to touch his rough, whiskered cheek gently, before laying the flat back of her hand against his still perspiration dewed brow.

He was still very warm.

The fever had not yet broken.

But at least he was quiet.

Calm.

Holding him had obviously been the best thing to do.

She went directly to the kitchen and made a fresh pot of strong black coffee, and whilst that was perking, she went to her closet and quietly selected a warm, tartan skirt and red and white sweater, then headed for the small bathroom, pulling the curtain closed behind her.

All in all, it had been a relatively quiet night.

He had woken only once, after the nightmares induced by the fever had initially disturbed her, and she had forced a little water down his throat, cradling his head as he gulped the cool liquid down greedily, although, she had only allowed him a few sips to begin with.

She had also applied another cold, damp, washcloth to his brow for a few minutes, then had cuddled up close to him again, drawing the blankets securely over them both, and had finally drifted back to sleep in the early hours.

After a shower, and dressing quickly in the cramped, freezing bathroom, Annie went back to the kitchenette and poured out coffee for herself, again noting that the tremor in her hand was a little more pronounced, using the pungent, dark brew to swill down two aspirins.

Her head was pounding, her joints aching, her stomach making strange, rumbling noises, adding to her queasiness.

_**This**_, she recalled, was one of the reasons why she had stopped trying to get truly sober.

A little nip, first thing in the morning helped to take away the pain, blot out the memories.

This morning she would have to make do with another cup of coffee.

_**You promised, remember?**_

_**Yeah, yeah ...**_

A loud crashing noise from the other room, brought her running, to find him sprawled on his belly, arms and legs akimbo, her vanity unit tipped on its side where he had knocked it flying.

Obviously he had tried to get up, his legs had been too weak to hold him upright, and he had crashed to the floor.

"What the ... damnation! Where'd'ya think you're going?" Annie exclaimed, hands on hips, regarding him with disbelief, as he clawed at the carpet.

"Danger ... run ... Catherine ... run ..." He mumbled.

"Hey, hey, calm down. Calm down!" She squatted down beside him, and looked into those wide blue eyes, that were suddenly brimming with tears, still fever bright, but there was a spark of something else there too.

Fear.

"Now look, chum, Catherine isn't here. Just me. Annie, and there's no danger here. Just help. You're safe. Safe," she reassured softly. "C'mon, let me help you ..."

She reached out to him, trying to persuade him to move under his own steam, if he could, because she didn't have the strength to move him on her own.

"C'mon now, please. You'll never get well at this rate ..." She chastised lightly. "Lean on me, there, that's right," she encouraged, as he staggered to his feet and leaned his full weight against her, almost knocking her over.

"Whoa! Steady! There now, that's fine ..."

She looked up into his face, and thought there was suddenly a spark of comprehension in those beautiful azure eyes.

They moved slowly back to the rumpled make shift bed on the floor, where he crumpled in an undignified heap once more, with a soft moan, breathing hard from the effort.

Annie covered him quickly with the thin blanket, and then meticulously checked his injuries, her concern that in falling, he had done still more damage to his shoulder, but found that the wound had not been bleeding again since she had last checked the dressing, indeed, all the wounds seemed to be healing nicely, and much more quickly than he had any right to hope for.

Obviously he was recovering.

And Annie was glad.

More pleased than she really should be about this stranger.

And obviously, she was going to have to watch him more closely.

Or else he might wreck the apartment.

And do more damage to him self in the process.

Bringing her coffee in from the kitchenette, Annie sat cross legged on the bed, cradling the fat brown mug between her hands, watching him.

His face was relaxed in repose now, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathed, no sign of pain pinching his unique features.

He looked younger, she suddenly realized.

And as she sat watching him sleep, she began to wonder what she would do with him once he began to regain his strength.

Obviously, he would want to go home.

But_**where**_ did such a being as he live?

_**How did he live?**_

He was obviously well nourished and well clothed, albeit that weird mismatch of much mended homespun.

It was a puzzle indeed.

She had originally thought it strange to hear him call out for a woman, but now she realised that he must have family, friends, someone such as he would need shelter, support, protection, just to survive from day to day.

Yes.

A puzzle indeed.

And it was undoubtedly a secret.

_**And what a whopper!**_

_**He**_ was a secret.

Well, he need not worry.

Anything he told her, knowingly or under delirium, would stay between them, these four walls ...

She knew all about keeping confidences.

Yes, his secret would be safe with her.


	10. Chapter 10

"How much further, Mouse?" Catherine panted softly, leaning heavily against a rough rock wall, dabbing the perspiration from her brow with the back of a glove encased hand, her words almost drowned out by the sound of wind moaning and howling through a nearby tunnel.

She was a jogger, and also enjoyed participating in martial arts, and she was quite proud of her level of fitness, but this trek down to the bowels of Vincent's world was turning into a marathon.

Mouse had set a steady pace, and wasted no breath on unnecessary conversation as they walked.

Catherine had never been this deep into Vincent's wonderful and mysterious world, at least not under her own steam, and certainly not willingly.

Paracelsus' henchman had carried her down and down, until she had thought that she had reached the very gates of hell.

_**No! Don't think about that. Vincent will pick up on that, wherever he is ... **_

She immediately quashed the mental image of that day not so long ago, when the evil Paracelsus, long, thin, goatee bearded face, half of which was encased in a mask of metal to hide those terrible burns, had used her ... her fear, to lure Vincent to him, so that he could invent still more lies to torment the man that she loved, about his origins, bring doubt into his mind about what he had been told by those who claimed to love him, about how he had come to be found and brought Below to Father.

"Mouse?"

"Not sure ..." He sighed expressively, a worried frown drawing together his young brow.

"Mouse, what do you mean you're not sure?" Catherine quizzed, a little more harshly than she had intended. She didn't mean to be unkind. She liked the boy, but she couldn't help thinking that he was a few sandwiches short of a full picnic.

_**Don't be unkind Catherine!. **_

She could suddenly hear Vincent's voice in her mind. See the look of disappointment in her, on his beautiful face ...

"Not sure ..." Mouse shrugged nonchalantly. "Never been this far alone before ..." He added by way of explanation.

_**"What!"**_ Catherine gasped, gazing at him with incredulous eyes. "Mouse, I thought you knew your way around these tunnels? I thought you _**knew**_ this place better than anyone!" Except Vincent ... She added silently.

"Mouse _**does**_ ..." He responded belligerently, kicking the dust up with his booted toe. "But _**down here**_, Mouse always followed Vincent, before ..."

And probably without Vincent even being aware of it, Catherine thought indignantly, feeling very much as though she had just walked into the _**Twilight Zone**_.

Mouse glanced around him now, his eyes darting this way and that, but never straying to settle on Catherine's exasperated face, taking in his surroundings and getting his bearings, or at least Catherine hoped that that was what it was.

_**Patience Catherine, after all, you did push him into this! **_She reminded herself sternly.

"This way ... I think ..."

He walked over to where a burning torch was resting in a rough metal bracket on the wall.

"Mouse, maybe this wasn't such a great idea. We can't afford to get lost ..." She was suddenly losing her nerve.

"Not lost!" Mouse declared, regarding her with big, hurt, blue eyes. "Just not sure before. Sure now. This way." He waved the burning torch in front of him, illuminating the entrance to a tunnel branching away to their left.

"Okay, Mouse," Catherine sighed deeply, standing upright now, relieved that she had at least had time to get her second wind.

"Okay good ... okay fine ... Mouse _**will**_ get you there, Catherine."

"I know, Mouse. I trust you ..."

He began to walk at a steady pace once more, and after another five minutes of trailing him down the narrow, passageway with it's low rock ceiling, that meant that she had to keep her head down and keep her gaze fixed on Mouse's heels, Catherine decided that when this was all over, she would give up_**chocolate**_**, **_**candy**_ and _**cookies**_**,** and run another five blocks,_**every**_ morning, because boy, was she out of shape!

_**What are you thinking about Chandler!**_

She was appalled with herself.

What was she thinking about, indeed!

Anything except about how worried she was, about Vincent.

How desperately frightened she was for him.

And how out of her depth she felt, here in his world.

_**Don't think at all! Just keep walking!**_ She told herself sternly.

If you are going to be of any help to Vincent at all, you need to be calm and positive.

Wherever he is, Vincent can_**feel**_ you, _**feel**_ what _**yo**_u are _**feeling ...**_

So, send out positive 'vibes', feelings of love, reassurance and confidence in your ability to find him, save him.

_**Don't let him feel your fear..**_

_**Your worry.**_

_**Your inadequacy..**_

Wherever he is, Vincent needs to know that you love him, and that you wont give up until you find him.

_**He doesn't need to feel you falling apart!**_

So-o-o-o-o ...

_**Pull yourself together Chandler, and keep your mind on what you're doing!**_

Catherine took several deep breaths to calm her shaking innards, and continued to follow Mouse down a twisting and winding route, until, at last, up ahead of them they could suddenly hear noises of movement coming from a dimly lit chamber, and the soft voice of an elderly woman talking to herself.

Mouse gave Catherine a triumphant grin that said better than any words_**'I told you so'**_ and she smiled her gratitude back at him.

The entrance to the chamber was very low, and Mouse had to bend almost double to enter, leaving the torch, which was burning low now, in another bracket on the wall, before ducking inside the chamber.

"Who is there? Ah, the timid one. Welcome, Mouse."

Catherine heard a woman's voice, deep, with an accent that she couldn't quite place, as she ducked low and followed Mouse into the orange glow emanating from the chamber.

"And you have brought a friend ..."

A short, black woman, her head bound in a brightly colored scarf, long silver earrings dangling from her earlobes, regarded Catherine with unseeing eyes, the lenses opaque with cataracts, clad in the usual tunnel dwellers mismatch of clothes, her chubby fingers encircled by various chunky rings.

"Narcissa?"

"Yes, child."

"My name is Catherine ..."

"Vincent's friend ..." The old woman replied knowingly.

"Yes," Catherine moved forward, as Mouse moved back into the shadows, nervously.

"Vincent has told me of you, child ..."

"He has spoken to me of you too. That is why I am here. I need your help, Narcissa."

"Help from _**crazy**_ old woman ..." The old black woman cackled. "Voodoo witch ... ha!"

"Yes. Narcissa, Vincent is ... missing."

The old woman tilted her head birdlike at this piece of information, those strange, unseeing eyes remaining still.

"He went Above, to tend to a sick helper, and he hasn't returned. We're all worried sick, Narcissa. There's been no word, and it's just not like Vincent not to try to get a message to us," Catherine rushed on. "Father is organizing a search Below, but ..." She faltered, a lump suddenly rising in her throat, tears welling up in her big grey eyes.

"Your love for Vincent does you credit, child," Narcissa reached out to her and gently patted her forearm. "So, why do you need crazy old woman to tell you what you already know?"

"He's alive?" Catherine whispered softly.

"He _**is**_ alive!" Narcissa confirmed, suddenly moving away from Catherine, those old hands deftly clearing a space on a workbench, and reaching out for a handful of small, irregularly shaped stones with strange markings scratched on their surface, which she shook once, like dice, and dropped onto the workbench.

Catherine frowned, but wisely kept silent.

"Yes, yes. He is alive, but hurt ..."

"Hurt?"

"Here," Narcissa indicated to her left leg. "Here ..." She then indicated to her lower back. "And here ... " Finally to her left shoulder. "_**This**_ is bad one ..."

"Oh God ..." Catherine groaned.

"Is sick ... fever ... _**burn**_ in him," Narcissa went on, a concerned expression on her face, as she spoke. "Very sick ..."

"Can you tell me where he is, Narcissa? Please!" Catherine implored.

"He is ... safe ..." She suddenly stopped, and turned those cloudy, unseeing eyes on Catherine. "Yes. Safe. In the arms of another woman. She nurse him, tend him, care for him."

"Another woman?" Catherine whispered huskily.

"A stranger. She has a good heart. Has taken him in. Will care for him until he is well. You must not worry, child ..." Narcissa tried to soothe. "Vincent is safe ..."

"Safe. Thank God, and thank you, Narcissa. Thank you ..."

With tears rolling down her cheeks, her voice low and intense, Catherine reached out to hug the old woman.

"Vincent's heart is true too, child. His love for you. Do not doubt it. Do not fear, even now, his thoughts are all for you," Narcissa assured. "This woman ... friend ... nothing more. Kindness and compassion drive her, not love, or lust. Vincent is in good hands. For now ..."

"Do you know where, Narcissa?"

"Above ... somewhere." She shrugged gently. "Cannot say more ..."

She moved the stones around on the work table with her index finger.

"You must be patient, little one." She smiled softly.

"I'm afraid that that isn't one of my stronger virtues," Catherine sighed deeply. "I feel so useless," she caught her bottom lip between her teeth and squeezed fresh tears from her eyes. "_**I**_ should be with him. _**I**_ should be taking care of him, as he has always taken care of me ..."

"Ah, love ..." Narcissa sighed softly. "Such are the ties that bind us ..." She again reached out and patted Catherine's gloved hand. "Have faith in your love for Vincent, in his love for you," she advised sagely. "It makes you both strong ... is keeping him alive ..."

"Thank you, Narcissa, and Narcissa, I know that you have helped Vincent in the past, when I have been in trouble, I just wanted to thank you."

"Vincent is my friend too, child. A being such as he is rare. Such simpatico. Such understanding. He has an open mind, despite what the Father has tried to teach him! Narcissa, crazy old woman, lives in fantasy world, seeing ghosts and spirits. Vincent knows the right time to believe, and when not to believe. He has a gift too ..."

"Our Connection," Catherine smiled.

"That, and the sight, child. He sees what others cannot ... in dreams ..."

"Yes," Catherine acknowledged.

"He is a special one, that Vincent. Tell him, when you see him, that crazy old woman, Narcissa would be glad of his company ... soon."

"Thank you, Narcissa. I'll tell him," Catherine smiled, despite her tears.

The old woman had given her a shred of hope to cling to.

"Child," Narcissa suddenly reached out for her again, catching Catherine's gloved hand, a concerned expression on her face, and there was something different in her tone of voice now that made Catherine frown.

"Child," she hesitated. "Be careful. Around you, there is much danger, much evil. You must take care, and be sure of those in whom you place your trust. There are dangers to you out there that not even Vincent will be able to protect you from," she warned.

"Narcissa?"

"I tell you this, not to frighten you, child, but, so that you can be ready, prepared. There is a dark shroud around you. You must take care ..."

"What is it you see, Narcissa?"

"I see ... life ... new life ... and ... I see death, child ..." This brought a frown to Catherine's brow. "Remember child, you have been warned. Take care. Not everything is as it seems. Not everyone is your friend. Now, you must go. The Father will be worried about you, say Narcissa has corrupted you! Ha! _**He**_ the _**crazy one**__, _but he loves you too, child ..."

"I know," Catherine sighed deeply, perplexed by the old woman's cryptic warning.

Her job as an investigator for the District Attorney's Office meant that she was constantly in danger in one way or another, and it was that element of her life, her work, that also put Vincent in the greatest danger, for he responded to her fear, needing to protect her.

Oh God ….

Is _**that**_ what Narcissa meant?

That in trying to protect her, one day, Vincent would be ... killed?

The thought suddenly made her go weak at the knees.

_**No!**_

But then, she remembered that Narcissa had also spoken of new life ...

_**New life?**_

A child?

Vincent's child?

Would she bare him a child?

Only to lose Vincent himself?

_**Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all ...**_

"Catherine," Mouse's soft voice broke into her thoughts. "We should go. Gotta search. Find Vincent ..." He urged, obviously uncomfortable with the things that the old woman was saying.

"I don't think there's any point in searching, Mouse. We won't find anything Below," Catherine sighed, deeply troubled by the way that her mind was working, trying to find a meaning for Narcissa's warning. "But we should go back and tell Father what Narcissa has told us."

"Okay good ...okay fine ..." Mouse hurried toward the low chamber entrance.

"Thank you, Narcissa. For everything. Be well."

"You too, child. Come see this crazy old woman again. With Vincent, maybe?"

"I would like that ..."

"Your future is beautiful, child, so long as you remember ..."

"I will. Goodbye, Narcissa."

"Goodbye child."

/a\

"Safe ..." Father expelled the word on a long sigh.

"That's what she said," Catherine, looking hot and sweaty and somewhat disheveled, sitting in the big chair beside the metal steps, sipping with obvious relish and relief at a cup of sweet tea, confirmed.

"But how can she be so sure? Narcissa lives in a dream world ..."

"A world that is very real to her. I could _**hear**_ the certainty in her voice, Father ..."

"You believe her?" He quizzed.

"Yes. You ask how she can know? The same way _**I know**_ that he_**is**_ alive. She _**feels**_ it. _**Sees**_ it. I don't know how …." She shrugged absently. "And I don't really care _**how**_, at this moment in time. All I know is that she has given me hope, Father, reinforced my own belief in my own instincts ..." Catherine took another sip of the very welcome tea.

She was alone with Father in his chamber, Mouse having taken the earliest opportunity to avoid Father's wrath, driven by his own need to search for his friend.

"And you say that she told you that Vincent is injured? Sick?"

"Yes. An injury to one of his legs, his side, and his shoulder. She seemed to think that the shoulder injury was the worst ..."

"It's ... amazing ... how could she know _**that**_?" He sighed deeply, beginning to limp back and forth across the chamber. "And he has a fever?"

"Yes."

"Dear God ... I must get to him. I _**must!**_ Did Narcissa say where he was?"

"No, not specifically. Jjust Above."

That made sense to Jacob Wells.

Since noon, the searchers had been returning, each of them gloomy and despondent because there was no sign of Vincent anywhere Below.

Despite the fact that they were all hot, tired and hungry, every one of them had come to report to him, desperately trying to be optimistic, and positive, but he had seen the fear, the despair, in all of their eyes, knowing that it mirrored what was in his own.

"Narcissa said that he was in safe hands, Father, and we have to believe ..."

"Catherine, you don't understand ..." He cut her off. "Vincent's biochemistry is so different, he can only tolerate certain drugs, certain medication. My dear child, in her kindness, this woman could _**kill**_ him ..."

Jacob suddenly realized that he had probably gone too far, when he heard the teacup rattle in the saucer, and saw her wide eyed, open mouthed expression.

"I'm sorry my dear, I shouldn't have been so blunt."

"What do you mean, she could kill him?" Catherine continued to gape at him, wide eyed, her voice very low and intense.

"Tell me, my dear, if Vincent came to you in such a condition, and you knew nothing of me, this place, his medical condition, history, tolerances, but felt compelled to help him, and you didn't know that Dr Peter Alcott was one of our helpers, tell me, what would you do? How would you help him? Bathe his wounds, try to give him pain relief in the form of Aspirin or Paracetamol, maybe even give him any antibiotics you might have lying around ..." Father suggested, not unkindly, and Catherine knew that that was exactly what she would do.

"Yes ..."

"Then you would be taking a considerable risk, Catherine, do more harm than good," he sighed deeply. "Vincent is not human enough to take such risks with, Catherine. What is generally good for us, is not so for Vincent, as I learned by trial and error in his childhood. Dear God, when I think back! Penicillin just made him violently sick, tetracycline almost killed him, he reacted so violently. Certain sedatives only made him more agitated ..."

Jacob looked at her white, anguished face and knew that he was telling her more than she needed to know right now and certainly more than she could cope with.

"I'm sorry my dear, I really don't mean to frighten you, but you must understand these things, if you are to be with him in the future, if he should ever have to rely on you for medical aid. God forbid, but that is for another time, another day ..." He sighed deeply.

"There is, however, one consolation, if Vincent is lucid enough, he will explain, tell her not to do anything, except bathe the wounds with sterile water, and he won't take any form of medication ..." He paused then and grew thoughtful. "And we have one other hope, if this woman has any kind of medical knowledge herself, the first thing any physician learns, is, do no harm. Do nothing that might endanger the patient. Sometimes that is all we can do anyway. Allow the body time to heal it's self. Vincent is very fortunate to be blessed with a very good immune system and he heals quickly. More quickly than either you or I," Father smiled softly then. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, my dear, Vincent knows what his body needs to recover. Sleep. Food. Rest."

"I'm sorry too Father, to react like that. It's just a bit of a shock to think that if I had tried to help Vincent in a situation like that, I would have killed him, and I know you're right ..." She sighed, gently setting down her teacup and saucer on one of the metal steps. "But, I can't help worrying ..."

She hung her head forlornly for a moment, and when she looked up again, there were tears in her beautiful grey eyes.

"I love him so much, Father, _**so much**_. Without him ... there is _**nothing **_... nothing ..."

Catherine sobbed softly, and Jacob Wells came to her quickly, then, opening his arms.

She rose from her seat and walked into his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder, sobs making her delicate shoulders and upper body shake violently as he brought one arm around her back to support her, his other hand leaning heavily against his gnarled old walking stick.

"That is something that we have in common, Catherine," his voice was tight with emotion now. "We both love Vincent, and he loves both of us. That is something that should make us closer, not set us at odds against each other, but, I am a stubborn old fool. I have gotten used to having him all to myself, being the only one who truly loves and understands him completely," he let out a long, ragged sigh.

_**"That**_ is no longer so, "he let out another deep, ragged sigh. "Let me tell you now, dear Catherine," he reached up and gently began to stroke her hair in smooth, comforting movements of his gnarled old hand. "I was wrong. I know it now. Your love for Vincent, his love for you, it is not a tragic mistake. It is a miracle. A blessing, for all of us to share in, and although I may not always approve, I do understand. Truly. I do ..."

"Vincent is the miracle, Father," Catherine sobbed softly against his shoulder.

"Yes," Jacob continued to stroke her hair comfortingly. "Catherine, this woman, it wouldn't be unreasonable to feel ... jealous ..."

"I know, but the funny thing is, I don't Father. Really, I don't. I am just so very grateful."

"Me too _**If**_ Narcissa is right, and if she _**is**_ right, Catherine, we should know something in a few days. As I said, Vincent heals very quickly."

Catherine pulled away from him then, and dabbed at her tears with the back of her gloved hand.

"Would you like to stay with us, Catherine? The Guest Chamber can be made ready for you. I know that Mary won't mind. I think she would be glad of something to take her mind off …."

Catherine knew what it must have taken for him to make the offer, but she had other plans for the remainder of the day.

"Thank you, Father, but no, not yet, although I do appreciate the offer. Ask me again, some other time, when Vincent is back with us, safe and well ..."

"Very well, my dear, but I think I'll ask Mary to see to it anyway, just in case you change your mind," he watched as she walked towards the metal steps now. "Catherine, you won't do anything ..." His voice trailed away, as she turned back to regard him with infinitely sad grey eyes.

"Reckless?" She finished for him. "No, Father, I won't. I promise."

"You're going to Brooklyn, aren't you?" He asked softly.

"Now who's psychic?" She smiled wanly. "But, yes, I am. I am a trained investigator, Father. I might find something that the helpers over looked. I_**must**_ do this, Father ..."

"As you say. You must. But, be careful, Catherine, and if you find him, bring him home."

His voice cracked them, and he forced himself to look away from her, so that she would not see his tears.

"I will, Father. I promise you," Catherine pledged as she walked confidently out of the chamber.

/a\

On her way Above Catherine swung by Vincent's chamber, feeling the need to be close to him.

She sat quietly on his over sprung mattress, quietly mulling over what Narcissa had told her.

About Vincent.

About herself.

The visit to the old woman had raised more questions than it had answered.

But Catherine could not help thinking that it had been a very important and necessary visit.

She had found it worthwhile, despite Father's misgivings.

In his world of science, there was no room for the unexplained, the paranormal, things that did not readily have a concrete answer or a set formula that could be followed, even he did not truly understand this Bond that she and Vincent shared, and the dreams, although he had gotten used to heeding Vincent's predictions over the years, especially if it entailed some form of danger to their secret world.

At least she felt calmer now.

_**Vincent was alive.**_

He was injured. Sick. Possibly fighting for his life ...

But he _**was alive**_,

And her heart rejoiced.

_**Be well, Vincent. Be well. You will soon be home.**_

_**I love you.**_

A sudden noise in the narrow entranceway made Catherine look up quickly, and she found a familiar young face peering through the low, narrow opening.

"Geoffrey ..."

"Hi Catherine," he held a folded scrap of paper out to her, shyly, as he entered the chamber. "Father asked me to bring this to you," he explained, and Catherine took the scrap of paper from him.

"Thank you, Geoffrey," she did not need to know how Father had known that she would be here. The sentries would have kept him informed of her progress through the tunnels, until she was safely Above.

Catherine opened the scrap of paper and smiled softly. In Father's spidery, physicians script was written Isaac Blum's address in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, also Clifford Wilson's address and a note that he could easily be found in the phone book.

_**Bless you, Father.**_

"Catherine, will Vincent come back?" The boy asked shyly, bringing her gaze back up to his innocent young face.

"Yes Geoffrey. I believe he will," she assured. "We all find our way home, eventually, Geoffrey, be it to a person or a place. This place is Vincent's home, and my home is Vincent."

A lump suddenly rose in her throat then, and she forced her gaze down, staring forlornly at the floor.

"One day, Geoffrey, you will understand. When you love someone as much as I love Vincent, as much as Vincent loves me ..."

"I _**do**_ understand, Catherine," he suddenly threw his arms around her, squeezing her tightly for just an instant, and then quickly disentangled himself and took off at speed, leaving Catherine smiling softly through her tears.

_**Bless you, Geoffrey.**_

_**I have a feeling that some day, you will inspire the same kind of love in another, unsuspecting young lady.**_

_**And I sincerely hope that you and she are as happy as Vincent and I.**_

_**C'mon Chandler, there's work to be done ...**_

She spurred herself on.

And she had to admit that it would be good to get back to what she knew best.

/a\

By the time Catherine found her way Above, called Clifford Wilson to arrange a meeting with him and a convenient time, washed the grit from her body and hair, ate a hastily prepared cheese sandwich on rye bread, and changed into fresh clothes, it was getting late in the afternoon.

There were several messages on her answering machine, one from her friend, Jenny Aronson, which would have to wait until tonight, and another from Joe Maxwell, her boss at the DA's Office, calling to see how she was feeling, after she had called in sick that morning.

Sitting on her bed, washing the sandwich down with a glass of orange juice, Catherine picked up the telephone and dialed the office number, and with a guilty conscience, suspecting even as she spoke to him, that Joe_**knew**_ that she was playing hooky, she told him that she had a gastric bug, and would probably be laid low for the rest of the week.

In response, he said all the right things, about staying away until she was well, and not to rush back, because they were too busy for her to have a relapse, and not to feel in any way guilty about the _**150**_ new cases that had appeared on her desk over night.

Good old Joe.

_**Was he psychic too.**_

Catherine wondered as she picked up a fleece lined suede jacket, her purse and her car keys and closed the apartment door firmly behind her.

/a\

Clifford Wilson had kindly agreed to meet with her outside Isaac Blum's apartment building at three thirty, and he greeted her cordially as she walked the short distance from where she had parked her car.

"Miss Chandler?" His hand was outstretched to her politely, as he spoke.

He was stocky, and considerably shorter than six feet tall, with flushed, chubby cheeks, and watery blue/grey eyes, clad in old denim jeans, sneakers and a black donkey jacket, and his hands were as big as meat hooks, she thought to herself, as she accepted his outstretched hand graciously with a smile, and returned his gentle squeeze of her hand.

"Call me Catherine," she invited.

"I'm Clifford," he extended the same invitation. "You said on the phone that you wanted to see Isaac's apartment."

"Yes," she confirmed.

"Well, there's not much to see, I'm afraid. The funeral home people came by and collected the body at lunch time, and I spent the morning with the police. They took a statement, but they seemed to think that it was pretty cut and dried, death by natural causes. Just another poor old fella who passed away in his sleep ..." He explained solemnly.

"It's this way ..." He indicated with a gloved hand, and she nodded, following him as he led the way to the seedy looking building on the end of the block, and up the stairs.

Isaac Blum's bed sit was no prettier than the outside of the building had promised, and a quick glance around the grotty room and adjoining kitchen, told Catherine that she would find nothing to help her here, but it was a place to start.

"Clifford, how would Vincent get back to Manhattan? Say, Central Park West? How would he get there from here?" She asked the older man, who was leaning casually in the open doorway, smoking a cigarette.

"On a night like last night, he would have made for dry ground, and he can travel faster Below," he explained, taking a deep pull on his cigarette, and expelling the smoke in a long stream, out into the hallway.

"Where is the nearest access to the tunnels?" She asked softly.

"About eight blocks from here, if I remember, there is an old abandoned print shop, but it's a fair trek above ground. The only other entrance is about four blocks from my place. Ten blocks from here. Why'd you ask?" He frowned suspiciously at her.

"Because I live off Central Park West, and Vincent was coming to see me last night," She explained, hoping to allay some of his suspicions.

"Ah, so _**you're**_ Vincent's new friend!"

"Yes. We're friends, Clifford. Vincent saved my life ..." Her voice suddenly caught in her throat then. "I love him very much, and I'm worried out of my mind about him ..."

"Hey, look, it's none of my business, Miss Chandler," he had the good grace to look embarrassed and ashamed.

"Catherine," she reminded him gently.

"Catherine, do you feel guilty? That this is somehow your fault?" She nodded gently. "Well don't," he sighed deeply. "I have never known Vincent not to do something when he sets his mind to it, and I can well imagine that his mind was quite set on seeing you," he grinned then, and the years fell away from his face. "I've heard all about you from Father, and I say it's about time_**somebody**_ led that boy astray!" He chuckled softly, and Catherine, finding her cheeks suffused with heat, smiled coyly back at him.

"Will you take me to the nearest entrance, Clifford?" She asked softly.

"What for? We know that he didn't make it Below ..." He took another long drag on his cigarette.

"But we may find some clues, Clifford. Will you help me, please?"

"Sure," he dropped the cigarette onto the floor and stubbed it out by standing on the still glowing end with his foot. "Anything if it helps to find Vincent."

Catherine walked out of Isaac Blum's bed sit and waited whilst Clifford locked up again after them, then she followed him back down to street level.

He walked slowly, hands buried deep in the pockets of his donkey jacket, collar pulled up around his ears.

It had rained again, sometime during the day, whilst she had been Below, Catherine mused, and the wind had dropped a little, but it was still bitterly cold, and she shivered, pulling her own furry collar up around her ears.

_**Thank God Vincent wasn't lying somewhere, exposed to the elements ... **_

If Narcissa was to be believed, a nagging little voice added softly.

_**Cynic!**_

Catherine stuck close to Clifford as they slowly followed the path that Vincent had taken the previous night, traversing the alleys and back streets, until they reached the old print shop,_**KIMBLES**_ - but there was nothing, the rain soaked streets scoured clean by the wind.

And now it was growing dark.

"We should be getting back," Clifford suggested, after she had been poking about in the basement and the tunnel beyond for about half an hour.

"Yes. I guess you're right," Catherine sighed deeply, trying to hide her disappointment. "Could we go back the same way, Clifford?"

"Sure," he shrugged absently.

"We might have missed something ..." She tried to explain.

"Do you even know what you're looking for?" He quizzed, lighting up another cigarette.

"No," Catherine admitted forlornly. "But I have to look anyway," she sighed raggedly. "_**Looking**_ is _**all**_ I _**can**_ do ..."

"All right, but we must go now," he insisted. "This neighborhood is no place to be after dark," he warned, then looked away from her, suddenly aware of the look of horror in her big grey eyes, as he realized that she was thinking that Vincent had been out in this neighborhood after dark.

It was already dark when they emerged from the dilapidated print shop building, and the air was full of a fine, all pervading drizzle, their breaths plumes of white vapor, the street, wet and glistening in the harsh, white light from nearby street lamps, and it was whilst they were walking back toward where Catherine had parked her car, in an alley, situated between two blocks of buildings, that Catherine's sharp eyes picked out something shiny on the ground, not far from a rusted green garbage dumpster.

She stopped abruptly and squatted, reaching out with her small gloved hand to pick up a small metallic cylinder, holding it up to the light.

A spent shell casing, recently fired too, if the pungent smell of gunpowder was anything to go by.

"What is it?" Clifford asked, stomping his feet to try to keep warm, a frown pulling at his brow as he watched her wrinkle her pretty nose.

"A spent shell casing. Someone fired a gun here, recently ..."

"You think someone might have_**shot**_ at Vincent?" He asked in disbelief.

"I don't know. This could have been here before, or after Vincent, if he even came this way, but, it's beginning to add up, Clifford ..."

She rose somewhat unsteadily, and he reached out quickly to support her.

"Yeah, I guess it does make sense," he mused. "If someone did shoot at Vincent, and they were blocking this end of the alley, effectively blocking his escape route to the print shop."

"Maybe he tried the other entrance?" Catherine concluded logically.

"Catherine, we can't go there tonight," Clifford sighed despondently.

"Why not, Clifford? I can suffer a little cold and rain, when I think how Vincent could be suffering."

"Hey lady, not fair!" Clifford sighed expressively. "You really know how to yank a guy's chain ..." He grumbled.

"Clifford, the man I love is out there, somewhere, in pain, dying even. I can tolerate any indignity, any humiliation or physical discomfort, if it means that we find him, and get him home."

"Okay, okay, I get the picture, and, if I let you go alone, it's only a matter of time before Vincent or Father lynch me!" He sighed deeply. "Lady, you are some piece of work ..."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Catherine smiled wryly.

"Are you carrying a piece?" He asked in all seriousness now.

"Never go anywhere without one," she lied bravely.

She had a gun, and a licence to carry it, because of her attachment to the DA's Office, but she rarely felt the need to have it with her, not since she had started taking lessons in self defence from Isaac Stubbs. She kept it locked in her night stand, although Joe Maxwell, her boss, was constantly telling her that it would really do her some good stuck in there when she needed it!

"I think I was just hoodwinked," Clifford rolled his eyes heavenward. "No wonder Father was worried about your influence on Vincent!"

He adjusted the collar on his coat, huddled deeper into it.

"Well, we'd better get moving. It's a long way ..."

"I'm right behind you," Catherine pocketed the spent shell case and followed Clifford hastily back down the alley.

/a\

"Catherine ..." Vincent mumbled weakly, trying to sit up, but strong yet, gentle arms were holding him down, and that soft voice with the strange accent was telling him to be still.

"Catherine ..."

Close Catherine...

_**So close ...**_

_**I am here ... I am here ...**_

"Catherine ..." He mumbled again, before subsiding back into the blackness.


	11. Chapter 11

At the alternate entrance to Below, located in the musty, rat infested basement of an old, derelict movie theatre, below the projection room, Catherine and Clifford poked around, but they could find no evidence that anyone but themselves had recently disturbed the rodent inhabitants or the dust and cobwebs which clung to every surface, and the cold was just about unbearable.

They had walked slowly from Isaac Blum's building, Catherine scouring the sidewalk for evidence of more recent gunfire, for any indication that Vincent had come this way, that he could have been pursued, hunted, but there was nothing. No obvious trail of blood to follow, no more spent shell cases.

With tears of despondency in her eyes, Catherine glanced over at Clifford, who was pacing back and forth, obligatory cigarette between his fingers, trying to keep warm by vigorously swinging his arms so that his gloved hands slapped around his middle, and she knew that he had just about run out of patience, and probably cigarettes too.

Catherine couldn't really blame him.

It had been more than generous of him to offer to help her in the first place.

She let out a deep sigh of resignation, and brushed away her tears with her gloved fingers.

"I'm sorry, Clifford, this is a wild goose chase. I guess it's time to call it a night," she smiled wanly at him, as he dropped the burned down cigarette butt onto the ground and stamped on it.

"C'mon. I'll walk you back to your car," he offered gallantly, smiling sympathetically at her.

"Thank you."

"I'll say one thing for you, Catherine, you're tenacious," he sighed. "And you have guts ..." He added thoughtfully, knowing that she would not give up.

In his considered opinion, Vincent was a very lucky guy.

"Thanks ..." Catherine blushed becomingly.

"Wherever Vincent is, I sure hope he's warmer than we are," Clifford observed dryly now, and Catherine could not suppress a smile.

_**Safe and warm..**_

_**In the arms of another woman ...**_

That thought wiped the smile from her lips, briefly, but she put it down to tiredness and disappointment and low blood sugar.

I am _**not**_ jealous ...

_**I am not!**_

Well ... Maybe just a_**little ...**_

_**But only about the safe and warm bit ...**_

_**Right now, I don't think I'll ever get warm again ...**_

"Clifford, I am very grateful for your help ..."

"We all help each other, Catherine. That's how we all survive. Father, Vincent, the other helpers, you, me. We all care about each other. Look out for each other. Try to love one another. You don't need to thank me, Catherine. I just wish we could have had more success."

"Me too," she sighed wistfully.

"We'd better go. Vincent would never forgive me if you caught pneumonia. I'd offer to buy you a beer, but I think a hot bath and a gallon or two of coffee would be more beneficial," he grinned, offering her his arm.

Catherine gratefully slipped her arm through his, and together they carefully picked their way through the debris, old movie reel cans, rafters and rotting celluloid, that littered the floor, until they safely made it back up to street level.

"I'm not sorry to see the back of that place," Clifford shuddered as they emerged onto the street at the back of the building, flurries of snow now being tossed in the wind, which had gotten up again.

"Those tunnels give me the creeps," he confessed, looking down at her now.

"Sound weird?" She nodded. "I'm claustrophobic, but every time I go Below I am forced to put my fear aside, and when I reach those wondrous tunnels and chambers, I'm always glad that I did, because my fear just evaporates. The people. The place. They work their magic. Shut me in an elevator for two minutes, and I break out in a cold sweat and feel trapped, but down there, I've never known such freedom. Such contentment ..."

"I know what you mean," Catherine smiled, sighing expressively.

"I hope Vincent takes you some place more romantic than that place back there ..."

"Yes," Catherine grinned mischievously. "Although we have had our moments in places like that," she blushed becomingly.

"I'll take your word for it, my dear, and spare your blushes, although, thinking about it, only Vincent could find romance in a hole in the ground, or a storm drain!" He chuckled softly, a warm, rich, deep sound.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it, Clifford ..."

And although there was amusement in her beautiful grey eyes, Clifford Wilson could not mistake the love that he saw there, and heard in her voice, and he could not help envying his unique friend, for in this beautiful, courageous and determined young woman, it seemed that Vincent had found a heart as big, gentle, compassionate and full of love, as his own.


	12. Chapter 12

Annie couldn't say what it was that disturbed her, but with a soft little moan, she opened her eyes slowly, the crick instantly felt in her neck, evidence that her head was tipped back at an awkward angle, and much to her surprise , found two startlingly blue eyes regarding her.

Wide, arresting pools of the deepest sky blue.

Intelligent eyes.

Eyes no longer unfocused and over bright with fever.

"Well now, look who's awake," she observed dryly, smothering a yawn. "Feeling better?" He continued to regard her, making no effort to speak.

Annie regarded him thoughtfully, with a keen physician's eye.

His face did not look quite so flushed, no evidence of perspiration on his brow, his eyes clear and full of comprehension now, and something else. Wariness. Fear.

Annie realised at once what he must be thinking.

He wasn't sure of where he stood, her intentions, what had transpired between them ... before ...

Yes ...

He _**was**_ feeling better.

And his mind was going a million miles an hour, in the wrong direction.

"Well now, you have me at a disadvantage," she smothered a smile at the sudden look of confusion in his eyes. "Ah, no, nothing like _**that**_ I assure you. You were in no condition for one thing. No. You've been a perfect gentleman," She assured gently, and noted the look of relief in his eyes. "Actually, I was talking about names. I'm Annie, and you are?"

Silence.

"Shy?" She arched an eyebrow quizzically.

Silence again.

"Ah, the strong silent type," she sighed deeply. "Well, I know you're not dumb," she smiled wryly, noting the slight widening of his eyes.

So he _**does**_ understand.

And now she understood the reason for his wariness.

He was worried about letting her know that he could speak.

"Look pal, when I wake up next to a bloke, I do generally like to know his name. It doesn't happen often as it is ..."

She could see him debating whether or not to answer her, a deep frown pulling at his heavy brow.

"I'm Annie," she reached out taking one of his big hands in her own smaller one, apparently uncaring of the long, sharp claws at the tip of each fur covered finger, and squeezed it gently.

This simple gesture of trust and friendship brought a look of utter surprise and wonder to his big blue eyes, as though he was simply unable to believe her total acceptance of him.

"Vincent ..."

He responded without thought, his voice very low, very husky, possessing a grainy quality that sent a delicious little shiver running down Annie's spine.

"Hello, Vincent," she smiled softly. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Annie, where am I?"

"Brooklyn. Williamsburg," she informed gently.

Vincent closed his eyes then.

Remembering ...

"Yes ..." The word was expelled on a soft sigh.

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"Yes ..."

"You've been quite sick ..."

When he said nothing more, Annie went on to explain softly.

"But I think the crisis is over," she reached up, with trembling fingers, and lightly touched his cheek. "It seems your fever has broken ..."

"Are you a doctor?"

"Yes, or I was, once, for my sins. But that was a long time ago. It's a very long and very boring story. We'll save it for another day. Now ..."

She quickly changed the subject, and her reticence was not lost on Vincent.

"You were shot. You have _**three**_ gunshot wounds," she explained on a sigh. "A flesh wound to your left thigh, a deeper wound in your right side, the bullet was lodged in the soft tissue between the ribs, and your left shoulder, that was by far the worst injury. The bullet nicked an artery as it passed straight through. I removed the bullets and cleaned all the wounds with boiled, tepid water and patched you up as best I could, in view of the fact that you kept thrashing about."

"Did I hurt you?" There was concern in his voice, and in his eyes now.

"No. Like I said, you were a perfect gentleman," she assured, and again noted the relief in his eyes.

"Drugs?"

"No. I wasn't sure what to give you, so I left well alone ..."

"Good. No drugs. Thank you," he sighed softly, his eyelids fluttering closed then, his breathing deep and regular.

He was asleep.

"So much for my sparkling company," Annie grinned to herself, rearranging the covers over him, then picked up her own bedding, and crawled into her bed, glad to feel the soft mattress beneath her stiff, aching bones and muscles, and as she drew her pillow closer and snuggled up to it, noting that the ticking clock on the bedside table read 3.30am, Annie could not help smiling to herself.

He was on the mend.

Getting stronger.

_**You haven't lost your touch, Annie.**_

_**You haven't lost your touch!**_

_**Maybe it's not too late, after all ...**_

_**No!**_

Forget it, Annie ...

_**That was another life.**_

_**Another lifetime..**_

_**Another person.**_

_**Nothing has really changed.**_

He needed your help.

You were there.

That's all.

Dr Annie Benson is dead.

Long live Annie Benson ...

The loner.

The lonely.

_The __**lush!**__._

_**You haven't had a drink all day! **_A familiar little voice in her mind reminded her.

_**Feels good, doesn't it, child ...**_

_**Yes Grannie, but don't blow up any balloons just yet!**_

_**  
One swallow does not a summer make ...**_

_**Tomorrow, I might fall off the wagon!**_

_**No, I don't think so, luv. You have got a taste for it again, haven't you?**_

_**Oh Grannie, you eternal optimist. But what if my taste for the booze is stronger? It's only been a day, and already my hands are shaking ...**_

_**Take it one day at a time, luv ... One day at a time. There's no turning back now.**_

_**We'll see Grannie. We'll see ...**_

/a\

Vincent opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the sudden brightness which replaced the inside of his eyelids.

_**Brightness ...**_

Daylight.

Daylight, seeping in through a small gap in the roughly drawn drapes.

_**Daylight ...**_

His first instinct was to flee. There was danger in daylight. And he knew that this place was not home.

_**Home ...**_

Father ...

Catherine ...

_**Catherine ...**_

He sat bolt upright, the thin blanket falling from his body, and as he did so, he winced, feeling pain and tightness in his shoulder, chest and leg.

He lay back down slowly, taking several deep breaths, as the room swam alarmingly before his eyes.

And he remembered ...

He lay still, eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly, counting the beats of his heart as it thundered in his ears.

His mouth was very dry.

He ran a thick, rough tongue carefully over is lips, tasting salt.

When he opened his eyes again at last, the room had righted it's self, and he began to look around the drab little room, squalid and smelling of mould and stale tobacco and damp, faded paint work, shabby furniture and drapes.

Cheap and old and unloved.

A place to exist.

Not a home.

Not like his chamber, filled with familiar objects, statues, books, knick-knacks, none of them any better quality than the things that surrounded him now, but loved, cared for, enjoyed and cherished, all the same.

And, at last, his gaze fell upon the bed just across the room.

And the woman sleeping within it, one bare arm on top of the covers and dangling over the side of the bed.

Her face was turned toward him, relaxed in slumber.

Not a beautiful face ...

But a face full of character.

A kindly face ...

Plump.

Cheeks delicately flushed, feather fringe of fine dark brown hair covering her brow.

Her lips were curved slightly at the corners, in a soft smile, as she slumbered.

_**The angel of the night ...**_

His benefactress ...

_**Annie ...**_

He undoubtedly owed her his life.

He closed his eyes again, and let out a deep sigh.

He felt so weary ...

So weak ...

Recalled snatches of a nightmare, of falling ... Falling ...

Of Catherinem in peril at the hands of Paracelsus ...

And through it all ...

_**Annie ...**_

Gentle hands, trying to soothe.

Patient. Calm .

Reassuring voice.

Unusual accent.

Sometimes colorful language.

Beside him.

Warm ...

Cradling him.

Never leaving him, at least not until the fever had broken.

_**Annie**_.

Selfless. Tender. Caring. Compassionate. Accepting.

How would he ever thank her?

He would find a way. Later.

Right now, he still needed her help.

He also needed the bathroom, he suddenly realized.

Slowly, and with infinite care, Vincent sat up. When that small effort left him breathless, head reeling, arms and legs shaking, he wondered how on earth he was going to get to his feet.

He felt as weak and helpless as a new-born.

He closed his eyes and let out a ragged breath.

At least he was alive.

_**Barely ...**_

He thought wryly.

But yes, _**alive!**_

After a few deep breaths, he felt a little less light headed, and careful not to put any pressure on his wounded thigh, he slowly rolled over and on to his knees.

Pain and fire shot through his upper body, robbing him of breath, and he let out a long ragged moan, his head bowed, hair falling in a shaggy, straggly curtain about his perspiration soaked face.

"Vincent?" Annie's sleepy voice suddenly broke the silence, and she sat up in bed.

"What's wrong?"

"Bathroom ..." Vincent panted, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Stay right where you are, buster. I'll be right there ..."

She flung back the bed covers, and slipped on a rough toweling robe as she crossed the room on bare feet.

"Can't turn my back on you for five minutes ..." She muttered darkly, sliding her arm under Vincent's uninjured armpit and applying upward pressure to try to lift him.

Vincent remained where he was.

"Look, Hercules I'm not! " She grunted breathlessly, a look of pure exasperation on her face. "I know that you are probably weak as a kitten, no pun intended, by the way, but if you could just see your way clear to putting a little _**effort**_ into it, we might just get you there before the end of next week ..." She regarded him with flashing hazel eyes.

"C'mon Vincent, have a little pity for the _**weak**__**little woman!**_ Please!" She sighed expressively, her tone sarcastic.

With tentative fingers, she then reached out and pulled his hair back from his face, noting his breathlessness, his pallor, the hint of pain in his eyes, and the perspiration beading on his brow, and something else in those amazing eyes, distress at his weakened condition.

Obviously he was not used to any physical weakness.

"Oh my," she smiled softly at him. "The fever has really knocked the stuffing out of you." she spoke softly. "Here. C'mon, lean on me, luv. After three ..."

She encouraged, lifting his good arm and draping it around her neck and shoulders.

"When I say three, you try to stand, and I'll try to lift you. Okay?"

Vincent nodded meekly.

He did not have the strength or the wind to form a reply.

"Ready? One, two, three ..."

Annie heaved with all her might, and Vincent used what little strength he had left, and between them, they managed to get him, somewhat unsteadily, to his feet.

Vincent leaned against her heavily, rubber legged, gasping and wheezing alarmingly, and then, staggering, reached out for the support of the nearest wall too.

"Hey, steady, steady," Annie encouraged softly. "It's really not far, probably only about ten paces from here ..."

"I can manage," he spoke huskily then between pauses for breath.

"Sure you can ..." Annie shook her head in irritation.

"I can ..." He assured, still panting.

"Okay. Have it your way ..."

Annie let go of him, and he immediately slumped against the wall. She cringed at the thudding impact he made as his legs buckled beneath him and he slid down the wall, ending up in a crumpled, gasping heap on the carpet.

"I hate to say I told you so ..."

"Then ... do not ... please ..." Vincent wheezed.

Annie grinned at him.

"Still plan to get to the bathroom under your own steam?"

"Yes ..." He let out a shuddering breath then inhaled deeply.

He was nothing if not tenacious.

"Don't let me stop you ..." She retorted, but did not move.

"Are you just going to stand there?" He regarded her with eyes that were full of acute embarrassment.

"Well, where would Sir _**like**_ me to stand? I could drape myself alluringly over the vanity, but, I don't see how that's going to get you to the bathroom and back again," she grinned mischievously.

Vincent lowered his gaze, and then hung his head defeatedly.

Annie could not help but take pity on him.

"C'mon Vincent, let me help you. Let's try again?"

She reached out toward him and with a sigh of resignation, Vincent accepted her offer of help.

What else_** could**_ he do, he reasoned.

When they eventually reached the small bathroom with it's toilet commode, washbasin and small shower over a stained enameled white bathtub, Annie took the hint from Vincent's pained and acutely embarrassed expression, and closed the thin curtain behind him with a flamboyant swish.

However, he waited for a moment, and when he did not hear her move away, he let out a soft groan.

"Annie ... please ... _**this,**_ I think I can manage ... alone ..." He beseeched.

"All right," she sighed deeply, giving him the benefit of the doubt. "But call me if you need me. I'll be in the kitchen. I bet you could really use a drink ..."

"Yes. Thank you ..."

"How about a glass of milk?"

"Delicious ..."

He heard her pad away softly, from the bathroom, and let out a soft little sigh of relief.

After flushing the toilet, and splashing cold water on his overheated face, and dabbing it dry with a threadbare towel, which he found draped over the side of the bathtub, Vincent began to look at the plumbing.

No help there, unfortunately.

The pipes under the washbasin were plastic, and the ones that would have been any use to him were boxed in behind the toilet commode.

_**Darn.**_

_**No pipes ... no message to Father ...**_

He would just have to think of something else.

"How are you doing in there, Vincent?" Annie asked softly from the other side of the curtain.

Vincent reached out and pulled back the curtain, and found her waiting, arm outstretched, ready to support him on the return journey to the main room.

"You look better," she observed dryly, as they staggered, weaved and stumbled haphazardly back to the living area, where Vincent gratefully sank back to the floor, and pulled the blanket roughly around him as a shiver ran down his spine.

"Look, I'm sorry Vincent, not everyone appreciates my sense of humor," she confessed. "And I guess I use it to cover shyness, embarrassment, awkwardness ..." She explained.

Vincent nodded in understanding, still too breathless and shaky to respond coherently.

"I don't mean to embarrass you ..."

"You ... did not ..." He wheezed at last.

"Here."

Annie handed him a small tumbler of ice cold milk, the glass running with little rivulets of condensation.

"Don't drink it too quickly." She advised gently. "It's been at least two days since you had anything stronger than a few sips of water ..."

_**Me too. **_She thought to herself.

_**But we wont think about that now.**_

She scolded herself silently, and watched as he accepted the glass from her with shaking fingers, and slowly sipped the cold, creamy liquid with obvious relish.

"So-o-o-o, Vincent,"

Annie regarded him thoughtfully, pulling her robe about her modestly, as she reclined back against the pillows and headboard at the head of her rumpled bed.

"Feel up to talking?"

"What should I tell you?" He replied, suddenly regarding her warily over the rim of his glass.

"Well, you could start with what kind of trouble are you in, and is it going to come knocking on my door with guns, or knives, or baseball bats?" She asked casually, but there was something in her face that alerted Vincent to the fact that she was only half joking.

"No trouble ..." He assured in a husky, gravelly whisper.

"So, what happened?"

"I was just in the wrong place ... at the wrong time ..."

"I see."

But he could hear her doubt, and plainly see the concern in her eyes.

"You can tell me anything, Vincent. It doesn't make any difference to me. You needed my help, and I am happy to give it."

"I assure you, Annie, no one is looking for me, and no one knows that I am here. It was just a stupid mistake. Boys, shooting indiscriminately in one of the alleys near here, where I had concealed myself, for obvious reasons," he cringed with the memory of feeling hunted and trapped.

"Oh Vincent ..."

"It is all right, Annie, and you are in no danger from me ..."

"I know that, Vincent, but thank you," she smiled softly. "Okay," she let out a deep sigh of relief then, her main fear alleviated. "So-o-o, who is Catherine?" She enquired casually.

Vincent was in the middle of taking another small swallow of milk, and almost choked on it.

"Whom?" He spluttered.

_**"Catherine."**_ Annie enunciated carefully. "She whom you have been calling out for these past two days?" she arched an eyebrow quizzically.

"Two days? Is that how long I have been here?"

"Yes, and don't change the subject," Annie chuckled softly. "So, Catherine, is she your wife?"

"No ..."

She noted surprise in his eyes and frowned momentarily. Did he think it strange that she could even consider that he could be as other men, with someone who loved him, someone that he loved in return.

"Your sweetheart then?" She probed.

"Well ..." He hesitated.

"I thought so," she grinned. "You were really worried for her, kept calling out to her to run, that she was in danger."

"Just a nightmare ..."

"Some nightmare, if the only thing you could think to do to save her was to recite Robert Browning!" She shook her head incredulously.

"Browning?" He frowned.

"The poet. You kept mumbling something about Paracelsus ... the Alchemist?"

"I do not recall," he bluffed, forcing his gaze back to the glass of milk as he took another small sip.

"All right. I'll mind my own business," she sighed softly then. "I'm sorry, Vincent, I shouldn't be such a nosy so and so ..."

She reached out then for a mug of coffee that she had placed on the bedside table, and glanced at the clock, surprised to find that it read 11.30am.

"You," She said, after swallowing a mouthful of strong, black coffee. "On the other hand seem to be suffering from a deplorable_**lack**_ of curiosity," she observed, regarding him over the rim of her mug. "Aren't you just a_** little**_ bit curious, Vincent?"

"Yes. A little," he confessed, relieved that she seemed content to take the pressure off him, not to probe too deeply into his life.

"So?" She invited, resting back against the pillows after setting down her mug back on the bedside table.

"Your accent?"

"Well, it's certainly not Brooklyn, that's for sure!" She grinned.

"British?" He guessed hesitantly.

"Yes. Clever you."

"My ... my father ... he was born in England, but he has been in this country so long, the accent has rubbed off, just a little. Even so, you do not have the same accent ..."

"From London was he? Your father?"

"Yes ..."

"Well, that would account for it. I'm from a little further North. Actually, a _**lot**_ further north. I'm from Yorkshire, a place called Wakefield, the youngest of seven children, so, if I come across as tough, hard-nosed, well, they breed 'em tough up there. And having six strapping brothers, I learned how to be strong and tough and stand up for myself."

She raised her clenched fists defensively before her.

"Six brothers?"

"Aye, and all of them as mean and nasty as they could be. God bless 'em one and all!" She chuckled softly, her voice full of love, despite her harsh words.

"It must have been hard to leave them?"

"It was," She sighed deeply again.

"And you are a doctor?"

"Yes. Was. I don't practice any more ..." Her voice suddenly trailed away.

"Then I am grateful for your help, Annie. Tell me why you do not practice any more?"

"It's a long story, Vincent. We'll save it for a rainy day. Now, let me look at your dressings, and then I'll see about getting some solid food inside you ..."

"I really should try to get home tonight ..."

"Didn't that little trek to the bathroom tell you anything? You are not strong enough to go anywhere yet. You need rest, food and sleep."

"But still ..."

"Look Vincent, you can go wherever you like, whenever you like. You are not a prisoner here." She told him indignantly, regarding him with hurt hazel eyes.

"I understand that, Annie ..."

He lowered his gaze then, a little shame faced at his lack of gratitude, but she did not understand. It was not safe for him to stay here.

"And I thank you, but I cannot prevail upon your good will ..."

"It's not good will alone, Vincent. It's plain, good old fashioned common sense. You're simply not fit enough to go anywhere, but, I can't stop you, if your mind is set on it," she sighed deeply, folding her arms across her ample bosom, and closed her eyes.

"Why are you in such a hell fire rush to kill yourself, Vincent?" She asked sadly, after a lengthy silence. "Because, let me tell you, that is what could happen, if you try to leave here, tonight."

She opened her eyes then, and regarded him with sorrowful hazel eyes.

"What is it? Don't you trust me, Vincent? Don't you believe me when I tell you that you are safe here, that you are welcome to stay here until you are stronger?"

"Yes Annie. I do believe you, and I trust you, but," he faltered then, unable to say more without revealing too much about himself and where and how he lived.

That was a secret.

One that not even he had the right to reveal.

"Then stay. At least one more night. You'll thank me later, Vincent, but if you try to go tonight, you're just asking for trouble. The fever could return. Your shoulder could open up again. Your legs might not keep you up long enough to get you to where you need to go. Think about it, Vincent. I haven't worked hard these past two days to keep you alive, only to let you kill yourself."

Vincent swallowed hard.

She was right, of course.

She was only telling him the truth, and he knew it.

At that moment, he did not have the strength to stand unaided, much less attempt the long trek Below back to Manhattan.

Annie watched him mulling it over, could practically hear the cogs in his mind working.

What she had told him was the simple truth.

The decision was his.

If he was half as intelligent as she suspected he was, and wasn't afraid to face the truth, he would realize that she was not trying to deceive him.

And then that decision would be easy.

Only a complete fool would give up a warm, comfortable bed, and the prospect of a good night's sleep, to roam the streets of Brooklyn and end up in a gutter somewhere.

And Annie was convinced that that was what would happen.

"Trust me, Vincent. Just a little bit longer. You're safe here ..."

Vincent lay back against his pillows, closed his eyes, and let out a huge sigh, wincing as the pain in his chest reminded him again of his weakened condition.

What choice did he have?

Really?

None.

He let out another huge sigh, then opened his eyes.

Annie regarded him expectantly.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you can be very persuasive?" He said dryly.

"You're staying?"

"If you insist ..."

"I don't, but, I think you've made the right decision. Really, I do. It really isn't the kind of weather to be walking around stark naked, after all," she grinned wickedly, and watched at the look of horror and embarrassment that settled on his unique leonine features, as he looked beneath the blanket, eyes widening as he confirmed his nakedness.

"My clothes?"

"Ruined. I had to cut them off you, I'm afraid. Sorry." She grinned impishly. "And, I don't think any of my stuff would suit you ..."

"And you said that I wasn't a prisoner ..." Vincent sighed, his voice trailing away.

"Well, there's always your cloak, but I think you'd find it a little draughty!"

"I'll stay."

"Good decision," Annie chuckled softly. "Now, let's take a look at those dressings ..."


	13. Chapter 13

"Any word?" Jacob Wells asked as he hobbled into the Pipe Chamber, still clad in the clothes of the top siders, dark suit, white shirt, polished black shoes, walking cane with silver tip and handle, a white carnation in the buttonhole of his lapel, a brushed dark bowler hat in his hand.

He had just returned from Isaac Blum's funeral, where several of the helpers from Above had spoken to him of Vincent.

Their kindness had been almost overwhelming, but, it had been Clifford Wilson's revelation, that his and Catherine Chandler's search of the immediate area around Isaac's bed sit had revealed the spent shell casing, and Catherine's suspicion of the possibility that Vincent had been hunted and shot at, that had caused Jacob the most distress.

He was hurt that Catherine herself had not come to him with this information.

Then, he had reasoned that she knew just how worried he was about Vincent, and had not wanted to add to that burden unnecessarily.

She was a thoughtful child.

But now, _**she**_ carried that burden alone.

"No. I'm sorry, Father," Pascal sighed deeply, and Father could not help but notice the deep worry lines etched into his cheeks and around his big dark eyes.

"It's been nearly three days," Jacob sighed deeply too, new lines of fatigue and worry etched into his own bewhiskered face. "I had hoped ..."

"I heard that Mouse took Catherine to see Narcissa ..." Pascal hesitated.

"Yes," Jacob confirmed. "Narcissa told Catherine that Vincent is safe. Injured. Sick. But safe ..."

"Did you believe her?"

"Maybe," Jacob shrugged noncommittally. "Part of me wants to believe, Pascal, but Narcissa can be so ... detached from our world. So irrational," he paused briefly. "Catherine believed her. Took some comfort from her words. Said it gave her renewed hope."

"Vincent sets a lot of store in what Narcissa tells him too," Pascal reminded gently. "Perhaps there is something in what she believes, after all ..."

"We all have to believe in something, Pascal. We all have our principles and convictions. It is my firm believe that Vincent is alive, but, other than that ..." He sighed softly.

"He is strong, Father, and he is nothing if not a fighter. He has so much to fight for now, so much to live for ..." Pascal soothed.

"Yes. You will let me know," Jacob waved his walking stick absently at the knot of pipes running along the walls.

"Of course," Pascal assured, and watched as Father hobbled out of the Pipe Chamber, a sad, dejected set to his old, round shoulders.

Poor Father ...

He hadn't slept.

Had barely eaten, according to William and Mary, who were both very worried about him.

If they were not careful, Father was going to make himself sick.

Pascal let out a soft little sigh.

"Be well, Vincent," he said softly. "And come home ... soon ..."

/a\

"Annie?"

"Mm?" She responded sleepily.

After tending to his dressings, and fixing a can of soup, which he had eaten sparingly, Vincent had fallen asleep again, and Annie had used the opportunity to slip out of the apartment and dash to the local drug store, where she had used her last 20.00 to replenish her stocks of bandages, gauze, sticky tape, a quart of milk and coffee, as well as a few canned goods that were on special offer, and she had used the pay phone to call her workplace, saying that she wouldn't be in for her afternoon shift as she was sick.

Then, she had hastily returned to the apartment, concerned about leaving Vincent alone too long, and after storing her purchases, she had lay down on the bed, and had obviously dozed off.

A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told her that it was a quarter before four in the afternoon.

"Vincent," she sat up groggily, rubbing her eyes. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?" There was real concern in her voice. "Do you need the bathroom again?"

"No. Thank you ..."

"Hungry?"

"No, thank you."

"Thirsty?"

"Annie, there is only one thing that I need ..."

His voice was deep and husky in the gloom, no light penetrating the still closed drapes now, as the winter night drew in about them.

He had woken a short time ago, still a little disorientated, but feeling much stronger, from another dream about Catherine, and had been lying quietly, listening to the steady rhythm of Annie's breathing as she slept, reaching out with his mind to the woman that he loved.

He could _**feel**_ Catherine's fear.

He could feel her concern, her worry, her frustration.

He could feel her reaching out to him, willing him to be well, to know her love for him, to reach out and take that love, and cling to it.

"What is it, Vincent?" Annie asked softly, a frown pulling at her brow as she squinted across the darkened room, and noted the very enigmatic look on his leonine countenance. "Tell me ..."

"Catherine. She is very worried ... very afraid ..."

"I'm sure she is," Annie sighed softly.

"No, you do not understand, Annie. I _**know**_ what she is feeling. I _**feel**_ it too ..." He explained a little awkwardly. "We have a ... Bond ... a Connection ..." He faltered.

"Go on ..."

"You understand?"

"I've heard about these things. Just because I don't have the gift myself, doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. I was, after all, almost the seventh son of a seventh son ..." She smiled softly.

"Thank you. Annie, would you ... could you ... try to get a message to her?"

Annie let out a soft little sigh.

How could she refuse him?

In the other woman's place, she would appreciate some news of the man that she loved.

_**Poor woman must be frantic, out of her mind with worry.**_

"Okay," she acquiesced softly.

"Her name is Catherine Chandler, and she is an investigator with the District Attorney's Office," he regarded her with intense, steady blue eyes. "You could try reaching her there," he suggested.

"All right. I'll try calling her there, if not, it shouldn't be too hard to find her address in the phone book ..." She rolled her eyes heavenward.

"Annie?" He frowned in puzzlement at her reaction.

"It's all right, Vincent. It's just that New York is a very big place, and if there is more than one Catherine Chandler. It might be harder to find her than you think. Like looking for the proverbial needle in that famous haystack. You couldn't be a little more precise, could you?"

"Her apartment is in Manhattan. Central Park West ..."

"Swanky," she commented with a grin, slipping slowly off the bed, pulling on the jacket which she had worn earlier, and had left draped across the foot of the bed, and jammed her feet into grubby sneakers. "Vincent ... you'll be all right?"

"Yes," he assured, and as she peered across the room at him, she had to admit that he did look better.

"Anything special you want me to tell her?" She enquired a little awkwardly.

"Just that I am well ... safe ..."

"And that you love her?"

"Well ..." He lowered his gaze shyly.

"Perhaps you should save that for another time, when you can tell her yourself ..."

Annie smiled softly then, fishing in her pocket for loose change for the pay phone at the drugstore.

"Yes ..."

"Can I get you anything before I go?"

"No, thank you."

"Right then, you stay put. Promise? You're still not strong enough to go gadding about on your own."

"I promise, and Annie, thank you."

"Think nothing of it, Vincent. If it were me, I'd want to know that you were safe too ..."

She smiled softly. "I should probably tell her to bring you some clothes too, eh?"

"That would be ... most agreeable." He chuckled softly then.

"Right. I wont be long ..."

"Thank you, Annie ..."

She slipped out of the door before he could say anything else, and Vincent lay back against his pillows, closed his eyes and thought of Catherine.

He reached out across their unique empathic link, across the city, sending her thoughts of love and reassurance, wondering if she would be able to feel him as easily, and deeply as he could feel _**her**_ turbulent emotions.

_**Hold on Catherine ...**_

_**Hold on ...**_

_**I love you ...**_

_**We will see each other soon ...**_

_**Soon, my love ...**_

_**Soon ...**_

_/a\_

"Hey, look Chandler, if you can't keep your mind on the job, maybe you should go home," Joe Maxwell grouched, regarding her withnarrowed eyes, after having dumped another pile of case files on her desk, without eliciting the usual scathing comment from her.

He had to admit that she didn't look too good, dark smudges under her eyes, pale face, big, wide grey eyes, all indications that she hadn't been sleeping well.

However, when she had arrived that morning, she had insisted that she was well enough to take up her full workload, and Joe, despite his misgivings, had left her to it, knowing through bitter experience when not to argue with her.

Now, he could see just how distracted she was.

"Go home, Radcliffe," he sighed deeply. "You're no good to anyone like this."

"I'm all right, Joe," Catherine regarded him with big, sad grey eyes.

She knew that he was really only trying to be nice, sympathetic, without really understanding the reason for her strange mood and distraction, but it wasn't the right approach.

She didn't need sympathy.

She needed to keep busy, to keep her mind occupied.

At least that was what she had told herself when she had decided to come into work this morning.

It probably hadn't been the most sensible decision that she had ever made.

Still ...

Now that she was here ...

"Oh sure ..."

"Joe ..."

"Chandler, like I said, go home. You can work twenty hour days next week to make up for it!" He grinned boyishly then.

"Very funny, Joe," Catherine smiled wanly. "I'm already working twenty four hour days. You mean I can take some time off to eat, sleep, take a shower ..."

"Everyone's a comedian today!" He rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation. "Cut me some slack, Radcliffe, and just for once, do as your told ..."

"I'll just finish up on the DeMarnio case ..."

"No, you won't," he growled, and would have gone on if the telephone on her desk had not chosen that precise moment to ring out, shrill and demanding.

"I really should take that," Catherine said, watching her friend and boss as he continued to regard her with exasperation.

"I want you out of here in half an hour, Radcliffe, understand? If you're still here then, I'll call the health police, and have you thrown into the nearest hospital."

"You're sweet, Joe ..." She grinned then.

"Huh!" He snorted indignantly. "I threaten to have her kicked out of here, and she thinks I'm sweet! I must be losing my touch ..." He grumbled, as he ambled back toward his own office.

Still grinning at his antics, Catherine reached out distractedly to answer her telephone.

"Catherine Chandler ..."

"Miss Chandler, you don't know me, but I have a message from a friend ..."

The voice on the other end of the line was not familiar to Catherine, female, with a very strange accent, and Catherine frowned, trying to wrack her brain, wondering which of the cases she was currently working on, this call could be about, wishing that she had paid more attention when going through the stack of new cases this morning.

She didn't get calls like this very often, informants calling her cold, but when she did, she liked to be prepared, give them her full attention.

You never knew where anonymous information could lead.

"A friend? Who?" She asked, still distracted.

"Vincent," Was the simple reply.

Catherine's breath suddenly caught in her throat at the sound of his name, and tears were suddenly welling up in her eyes.

"Vincent?" She echoed. "Where is he? Is he all right? Tell me, tell me! Please ..." She whispered urgently into the telephone receiver.

"He's alive, Miss Chandler. He's been sick, and he's still very weak, but he is alive."

"Thank God!" Catherine breathed.

"He wanted you to know that he is safe, being cared for. He loves you very much."

"Thank you. When can I see him?"

"As soon as you like. Oh, er, and by the way, he'll need some clothes ..."

"Oh?" Catherine frowned at this piece of information.

"Yes. His were ruined. Unfortunately, I had to cut them off him ..." The voice on the other end of the line explained, with a hint of amusement, Catherine noted, still frowning.

"Okay. I'll arrange something. Where can we meet?"

Catherine reached out for a pencil, and hastily scribbled down directions to an address in Williamsburg, Brooklyn on her legal pad. "Yes. Okay, I've got that. Give me about an hour ..."

"Okay."

"Thank you, Miss?"

"Annie."

The phone line went dead then, and Catherine hastily got to her feet, pushing her chair back away from her as she tore the hastily scribbled directions from her legal pad and jammed the sheet of paper into her purse, before pulling on a long, dog tooth checkered coat and draping a navy scarf loosely around her neck.

"Good to see you taking my advise at last, Radcliffe!" Joe retorted as she hurried past his open office door. "And don't come back until you're over whatever it is!"

Catherine acknowledged him with a wave of her small hand as she continued on her way.

_**Ah Joe, if you only but knew it ... **_

This is one malady I _**never**_ want to get over!


	14. Chapter 14

"Father! Father! Jacob!" Catherine called out urgently as she hurried down the four metal steps from the vestibule, into Father's chamber.

"Catherine?" Father suddenly appeared at the metal rail around the upper level of the gallery, peering down at her from the gloom. "What is it?" She could hear the fear in his voice now.

"I got a call, at the office," She explained, hurriedly, breathless from her long trek down from the Central Park threshold. "From_**her**_. the woman taking care of Vincent. He's alive Father! He's alive! Safe. Weak, but, recovering. _**He's all right**_, Father. He's_**all right**_!" She told him jubilantly.

_**"Thank God**__,."_ Jacob closed his eyes and sighed deeply in obvious relief. "Where?" He asked succinctly as he then carefully began to make his way down the flight of spiral metal stairs toward her.

"Brooklyn, about four blocks from Isaac Blum's apartment building," Catherine explained. "I'm going there now, to take him some clothes ..."

"I'll come with you." Jacob Wells insisted.

"Are you sure, Father?" Catherine was suddenly full of concern for him now.

"Of course," he bristled. "I'll be just fine. Let's go and bring him home ..."

"Father ..."

"I'll manage." He told her grimly, reaching out for his medical bag. "But Vincent might not be up to the journey. I'll have to make arrangements. Simon and Howard could come along," he mused aloud.

"Let me take you in my car, Father. We can meet Simon and Howard at the print shop entrance." Catherine suggested tactfully. "We'll get there more quickly."

"Very well," Jacob let out a soft sigh of resignation. "I'll get changed whilst you find out some clothes for Vincent ..."

/a\

In less than fifteen minutes, Catherine had collected under things, socks, clothes, boots and a fresh cloak from Vincent's chamber, and had returned to Father's chamber, to find him looking very smart in a soft double breasted grey suit, white shirt and grey waistcoat. He held a sturdy dark wood cane with a polished silver tip and handle, and on his head, at a jaunty angle, he wore a neatly brushed, old fashioned grey Fedora hat.

In his other hand, he held his battered old medical bag.

Two tall, strong, handsome young men, clad in tunnel dwellers mismatch, and leaning against sturdy, if somewhat crooked staffs, were listening intently to Father's instructions as to how to reach the entrance of _**KIMBLES,**_ the abandoned print shop in Brooklyn, pouring over one of Father's unique maps of Below and, listening with patient understanding, to his adamant insistence that that they should specifically wait to hear from him before venturing Above.

There was much chatter on the pipes, Catherine realized as she waited for Father to finish giving his instructions to Simon and Howard, obviously word had gotten out that Vincent had been located at last, and that he could be home with them very soon.

Catherine smiled softly.

_**I'm coming Vincent.**_

_**Hold on just a little longer, my love.**_

_**You'll soon be back with the people who love you.**_

_**Hold on ... Just a little longer ...**_

"Catherine?" Jacob coughed softly, and lightly touched her arm. She blinked rapidly at him, momentarily lost then smiled softly, a delicate flush coloring her cheeks.

"Sorry, I was miles away ..."

"I know, and miles away is where we should be," he smiled now too.

"I'm ready ..."

"Simon and Howard are already on their way. They will see us at the print shop, later."

Okay. Let's go."

/a\

"Annie?" Vincent regarded her with hopeful, intense azure eyes as she closed the door firmly behind her, and shucked out of her jacket. "Were you able to speak to Catherine?"

"Yes, I spoke to her, Vincent. She'll be here in about an hour, so we'd better do something to make you look presentable ..." She grinned at him.

"Thank you, Annie. I am truly grateful. For everything ..."

Her cheeks colored most becomingly then, and she crossed the room, quickly knelt down beside him, and pressed a gentle kiss to his rough cheek.

"Thank _**you,**_ Vincent ..."

Vincent frowned up at her as she withdrew, surprised by her show of affection toward him, but not offended.

Pleasantly surprised in fact.

To him, her unquestioning acceptance of him was nothing short of a miracle.

"Why are you thanking me, Annie?" He questioned, noting that there were tears shining in her pretty hazel eyes now.

"Oh, it's nothing. Just me being ... _**female**_ ..." She tried to pass it off lightly.

"Tell me ..." Vincent invited in soft, velvet tones.

"Well, you may very well have saved me from myself, Vincent," she sniffed, her voice a coarse whisper. "I was on a very slippery road to self destruction. You see. I'm a boozer ..." She explained softly, her features twisting into an expression of self loathing. "When things get tough, old Annie, here, hits the bottle ..."

Vincent recalled, now, that on the night that she had rescued him, dragging him in from the street, he had indeed smelled alcohol on her.

"Oh yes, I talk tough, and I think tough. Sometimes I even _**act**_ tough, but that's all it is. An act. When it comes to the crunch, Vincent. I'm weak ..."

Tears suddenly spilled down on to her cheeks, and she rose quickly, crossing the room, needing to put some distance between them before she cracked up completely.

"Weak ... useless ... ineffectual ..." She continued, her back to him now. "And so ... I reach for the comfort of a bottle ..."

"Is that why you gave up medicine?" He asked softly.

Had the pressure of that very demanding profession been too much for her? He pondered silently to himself. If so, she wouldn't have been the first.

He recalled now, some of Father's tales of colleagues who had turned to drugs and alcohol as a means of simply getting through the horrors of day to day practice in big city hospitals.

As a research scientist, the pressures on Jacob Wells had not been so great, but, he had understood the rigors of the profession during his training, some of his colleagues falling into the habit of substance abuse to get them through their training, their first days on the wards, and through final exams, setting a pattern of reliance on chemical means to just survive each day.

"No!" She span around to face him then. "Oh no, I loved medicine, loved my work, and I was_**damned**__**good**_ at it too," she told him with a hint of indignation. "I never touched a drop when I was practicing. _**Never**_. In fact, I was tee total. The booze came later. Much later ..."

"Forgive me, Annie, I did not mean to pry ..."

"Curiosity killed the cat," she sniffed, swiping impatiently at her tears with her fingers.

"Yes ..."

"I haven't touched a drop since I found you, Vincent," she smiled wanly through her tears. "Although, I could use a double vodka straight up right about now," she held out her hands toward him to show him how they were trembling.

"I'm a drunk, Vincent, and it's been hard for me to admit it, but I guess some would say that_**that**_ is a step in the right direction ..."

"Yes ..." He confirmed softly.

"Oh don't get me wrong. I'm not a falling down drunk. To look at me you probably wouldn't even realize, well, maybe if you looked close enough. I'm a tippler. Just a nice steady little nip here and there, all day long, kind of drunk. Wouldn't be able to hold down my job if they thought I was tiddly all the time, but …. I'm probably an alcoholic ..."

She swallowed hard then, aware of the enormity of what she had just admitted to herself, for the first time.

"And that's not easy to admit either ..."

"Annie ..."

"No Vincent, please, now I've started, have the grace to let me ramble on and get it out of my system."

"Of course ..."

"When I found you, I was scared half out of my wits, drunk, feeling no pain, although I wasn't as drunk as I usually get. But, even so, my first instinct was to reach out and help you." She smiled bravely through still more tears.

"You gave me something to think about, other than myself, and for the first time in a long time, I felt needed, useful, and so, I promised myself that I wouldn't take another drink, until you were ... well ... gone ..."

More tears were rolling down her cheeks now, and again she swiped at them with her fingers.

"And ... I have kept that promise ..."

"I know ..."

"It hasn't been easy, Vincent ..."

"I understand that."

"Do you?"

"Yes." Vincent said solemnly, thinking about his young friend Rolley, and his addiction to heroine.

Rolley had reached out to that drug to blot out his pain, his guilt, over his imagined involvement in the death of someone he had cared about, and who had cared about him, because he could not live with him self, and it had destroyed the man that he could have been.

"Annie, we all have the capability within us for self destruction," he told her honestly. "Even I ..."

"Maybe," she conceded softly. "But you've made me stop and think, face up to what I have become, and let me tell you, Vincent, I don't like what I see. I don't like it all. I can't abide weakness in others, but I'm the weakest of the lot ..." She sobbed softly.

"There is still time to change, Annie. It does not have to be that way ..."

"I know. But nothing has _**really**_ changed, Vincent ..."

"Yes it has, Annie. You're attitude has changed. You want things to be different, better. Annie, you are a fine doctor, caring, tender, intuitive. Why did you give it up?"

"The same reason why I started drinking, Vincent. Fear ..."

"Tell me …. "He invited softly, regarding her with sympathetic lapis lazuli eyes. "Help me to understand."

"It's a long story ..." She sniffed.

"We have an hour," he reminded her with a soft smile, the small gesture that lifted his features, without actually revealing his teeth.

"All right, but when you're screaming for mercy, just remember, _**you**_ talked me into it ..."

"Come, sit with me," Vincent invited softly, patting a space on the blanket beside him.

"You sure? I wouldn't want to end up at the top of your jealous sweetheart's hit list ..." She grinned then, despite herself. "Oops, there I go again, that damned sense of humor of mine ..."

"A defensive mechanism, Annie ..." He said reasonably. "Please, sit down."

She came to him then, knowing that she could not face telling him her life story with the width of the room between them, like a chasm.

She sat down cross legged on the blanket, facing him, looking into that dear face, seeing only understanding and compassion in those now familiar deep azure eyes.

"What would you like to know?" She asked with a soft sigh.

"Whatever you feel able to tell me ..."

"Well, I suppose the beginning would be a good place to start ..."

"As you wish."

"Well, let me see ..."

She paused for a moment, and Vincent could see that she was trying to find the right words to begin. He waited patiently, and was soon rewarded.

"I came here from England, about four years ago, part of the brain drain," Vincent frowned.

"Professional people from England leaving en masse for jobs with more money and better opportunities in other countries, especially highly qualified people like doctors, scientists, that sort of thing," she explained softly.

"I was part of the mass exodus from the National Heath Service, our highly regarded but oh so under funded health system, and I had set my heart on America. The land of milk and honey ..." She sighed deeply then.

"The land of opportunity. The land of the free, and the home of the brave ..." She paraphrased the last line of his country's national anthem.

"I came over here full of hopes, dreams," she continued after a brief pause for breath and a chance to organize her thoughts once more. "And hit a snag the minute I got off the plane. The job I had gotten via an agency here in New York had fallen through, because, apparently, my medical qualifications were not recognized here in the States, which, the agency had not bothered to check out. So, I was left high and dry, with no job, nowhere to live, and no prospects of finding anything any time soon. What did I know? I trusted the agency," she sighed deeply, and rolled her eyes expressively.

"Well, I eventually got a job as a nurse, and went back to school in the evenings so that I could sit the relevant medical boards, and after a year of intensive study, and working my backside off as a nurse, something that really opened my eyes and made me respect my colleagues, I can tell you, I finally got the right qualifications, and landed a job as a lowly intern in the E. R. at Beth Moses Memorial Hospital, here in Brooklyn. Graveyard shifts mostly ... nights." She grinned, when again he frowned at the unfamiliar terminology.

"And I loved it."

This time the grin was even wider, causing her hazel eyes to dance and sparkle with remembered happiness and contentment.

"I had never been so weary in my life, but I loved it, Vincent, thrived on the challenge, learned something new everyday, about medicine, about people, about myself. God, Vincent, I had never been so happy in my life. I had everything I wanted. A job I adored, a place of my own ... not this dump ..." She pointed out quickly. "And friends, people I liked and respected, and who respected me too." She sighed softly then, lowering her head.

"What changed, Annie?" Vincent asked in soft, velvet tones.

"The world, Vincent. The world, and everyone in it. Madness. Everything just seemed to go crazy."

"I do not understand, Annie ..."

"The violence, Vincent. So much violence on the streets, just seemed to spill over into the hospital emergency room. It seemed that there wasn't a night when drunks would brawl in the waiting areas, or some maniac handcuffed to a cop would snatch his gun, or grab scissors from treatment trolleys and wave them in the faces of the patients, the staff, it was crazy. Plain crazy ..." She let out a shuddering sigh at the memory.

"I wasn't used to it, Vincent. Oh yes, I thought that we had a problem with violence and bad behavior in our Accident and Emergency Departments in hospitals back home, especially in the big inner city areas, it's a fact of life, but not as bad as this . I was scared. Terrified out of my wits every shift. Security was a joke. We all kept saying that it was only a matter of time before someone got seriously hurt. We all felt under pressure as it was, but the violent, abusive behavior that we had to deal with was something that none of us were prepared for ..."

"What happened, Annie?" Vincent asked softly, reaching out from beneath the blanket to touch her hand reassuringly, as she closed her eyes again, against the memory, and shuddered.

"One night, I was coming out of a treatment room, having just put ten stitches in a fourteen year old black boy's side, he'd been knifed by a so called 'friend and brother' in a gang related incident ..." She faltered suddenly, her voice noticeably shaky now.

"When, out of nowhere, this bloke ..." She swallowed hard. "This bloke, came up behind me, and grabbed me, his arm around my chest, and I felt something cold and hard against my throat. A knife, one of those wickedly sharp, stiletto type blades and he said that if I didn't do as he said, didn't get him what he wanted, he would ... cut me ..." She hung her head briefly then, wrestling with bitter memories and associated emotions.

"Annie ..." Vincent again touched her hand lightly. "It is all right. You do not need to go on ..."

"Yes! Oh yes, I do, luv ..."

She opened her eyes then, and he could see the horror and the fear there, and also a need to unburden her self.

"He was doped up to the eyeballs, Vincent," she continued, expelling the words on a deep breath, her gaze casting inward now, a glazed expression in those previously turbulent hazel eyes.

"All my colleagues could do was stand by and watch, as he physically dragged me through the Emergency Room to the drugs cupboard, and I couldn't fight back. I just couldn't. I was too terrified. Too weak ..."

"He would have killed you, Annie, if you had tried anything." Vincent reasoned softly.

"You don't understand, Vincent. He was going to kill me anyway. It was his only option. The police had arrived by then, and they had him surrounded. He wasn't going anywhere except to jail ... or straight to hell ..."

Tears slid down her cheeks from between closed eyelashes now, inspired by the horrific memories that she was reliving, and again, Vincent patted her hand reassuringly.

"Did he hurt you, Annie?" He asked softly.

"Yes ..."

The word came out on a soft hiss of breath.

"Yes," she shuddered again. "He cut me ... here ..."

Her shaking fingers reached up to gently pull down the high neck of her sweater to reveal a thin, fading red line across the base of her throat.

"Annie ..."

"He thought he had cut my throat, Vincent, and so did I for an instant. He threw me to the ground like a rag doll, not realizing that the wound was only superficial. He didn't cut deeply enough to cut through my windpipe or any major arteries, but _**he**_ didn't _**know**_ that ..." She paused momentarily, then, "I was very lucky in that respect. ... _**lucky**_ ..." Her lips twisted in a bitter sneer then.

"He could have killed you ..."

"Yeah. Maybe it would have been better if he _**had**_ ..." She sighed deeply. "Anyway, he took my keys to the drug cupboard from me, as I lay there, bleeding, playing dead, and when he couldn't find what he needed, he went berserk, charging through the hospital, waving his knife at everyone until a cop shot him ... dead ..."

She took in a long, shuddering breath then.

"So, you see, Vincent, I lost my nerve ... after that ..."

"That is quite understandable, Annie ..."

"Not to _**me**_. After that, I began to see _**every**_ patient as a potential threat, a potential killer," she explained raggedly. "But, I lost more than just my nerve, Vincent. I lost my compassion, my understanding, my faith. I lost _**myself**_ . I hated everybody and everything. I blamed everybody else for not keeping me safe, and I blamed myself for the man's death. I should have been able to _**do**_ something to talk him down, to stop him before anyone got hurt, but ... I froze ..."

"Annie, there wasn't anything that you could have done ..." Vincent assured. "The man's fate was sealed before he even came into contact with you. You must see that ..."

"I took an oath, to save lives, or to do no harm when I couldn't save them, but, in the end Vincent, all I could think of was saving myself ..."

"Annie, we all have an instinct for survival. You are no different to anyone else. By giving in to his demands, you probably saved a lot of lives that night. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Annie, nothing to reproach yourself about. You were the victim, not the villain."

"Yes. The victim, and he took something very precious from me, that night, Vincent. He took away my humanity, my compassion, and I haven't cared for _**anything**_ or _**anyone**_ since that night. Until I found you, outside, and even drunk as I was, I knew that I couldn't leave you out there to die ..."

"So you did not really_** lose**_ anything, Annie."

"No. I found the strength, when I looked at your face, when I saw your face, Vincent .and I realized what it must take for you to live just from day to day, and, even when you were so sick, your thoughts were for someone else, the woman that you love, I took my strength from you, Vincentm and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for that ..."

"I did nothing, Annie. The strength was there, within you, all the time ..."

"Maybe," she sighed raggedly. "But it took you to unlock it. I saw you, and I knew that you were special. I knew that I had to help you, that in saving you, maybe I could begin to save myself ..."

She smiled wanly at him then, squeezing still more tears from between her lashes.

"I can't turn back now ... can I?"

"No Annie. You cannot. You have the strength, and you have a gift for healing. It would be such a pity to waste that gift, a gift that I have benefited from. Others should have that benefit too. That was this man's _**real**_ crime, Annie. He robbed the people of a genuinely caring and gifted physician. But perhaps she is not entirely lost?"

"I don't know, Vincent. I don't know. It's a long way from being a lush to being a sober, upstanding citizen."

"You will not be alone, Annie," he assured. "I will be there if you need me, and my friends, we will all support you, if you truly want to put this behind you and start over ..."

"I do, and it will make a nice change. Not to be alone. I've been alone for so long. So lonely ..." She confessed raggedly then. "I know that it won't be easy, but, I can't go back to the way that things were ..." She took in a deep breath then let it out slowly.

She regarded him fondly for several minutes, then, smiling wanly, she reached out and gently touched his rough whiskered chin.

"I don't know whether to kiss you, or slug you." She grinned.

"A kiss would be the more acceptable option ..." Vincent rumbled softly, and she leaned forward and pressed soft lips to his bewhiskered cheek.

"Thank you, Vincent," she said solemnly, looking into his beautiful, soulful, deep azure eyes. "I'll never be able to thank you enough. Bless you."

"Thank _**you**_, Annie. It is _**I**_ who could never thank _**you**_ enough ..."

"Well, in that case, perhaps we should start a mutual admiration society!" She chuckled softly, and reached out to gently stroke his fluffy hair from his cheek.

"Annie, I _**will**_ be there for you, if you need me," Vincent pledged solemnly, in a deep voice. "Always."

"I believe you ..." She smiled serenely then. "My ... friend ..."

"Yes. Tour friend ..."

Annie suddenly reached out and wrapped her arms very carefully around his neck, burying her face in his good shoulder, as she gave into the tears which should have been shed a very long time before, and after a brief hesitation, a moment of awkward uncertainty, Vincent held her lightly, supporting her shuddering shoulders as she clung to him, sobbing softly, until the storm of sorrow and regret was over, and she hastily disentangled herself from his embrace.

"Better?" He regarded her with sympathetic sky blue eyes, full of understanding.

"Better." She confirmed with a wry smile. "Thank you."

"Happy to oblige ..."

He smiled back, recalling that Catherine had often told him that his shoulder was the most comfortable place to lay her head, be it in sadness, to succumb to tears, or simply to feel close to him in a shared moment of togetherness

.

"Oh hell!"

Annie suddenly glanced at the clock as she pulled away from him, and quickly scrambled to her feet.

"Your friend will be here soon. We wouldn't want to give her the wrong idea ..."

"Catherine would understand." He assured softly.

"Magnanimous of her," Annie rolled her eyes heavenward. "I'm not so sure I would, in her place. Now, we'd better try to make you look presentable. I know I've got a brush and comb around here some place ..."

"Annie," he regarded her with a steady gaze. "I will never forget your kindness, your acceptance of me. I owe you my life, and a simple thank you does not seem enough ..."

Annie suddenly colored a becoming shade of pink.

"No wonder your Catherine is so taken with you. Silver tongue devil you ..." She grinned, then frowned at the peculiar look that had suddenly appeared on his unique leonine face. "Vincent?"

"Catherine," he spoke her name with such love, such awe …. "She is close ..."

"How do you know, Vincent?"

"I can feel her." Was his simple reply, and Annie did not question the truth of it, instead, she set about finding a brush to hastily untangle his lank and lifeless hair, and then set about straightening his pillows and blankets, in readiness for their visitor.

/a\

"Oh my God ..."

Catherine gasped, as she and Jacob Wells walked the short distance from where she had parked her car, to the alley, and the address of the place where they hoped that they would find Vincent.

"What is it, Catherine?" Jacob regarded her with a deep frown, noting her expression of disbelief.

"So close, Father. Clifford and I, we were so close ..."

She pointed to the rusted, faded green garbage dumpster.

"I found the spent shell casing just down there," she sighed deeply. "I can't believe just how close we were ..."

"That doesn't matter now, Catherine," Jacob told her softly. "Pleasem we should hurry."

His impatience was evident in the way that he was moving in the darkened alleyway, talking bigger, quicker strides, than she was used to seeing from him, despite the icy tarmacadam beneath their feet.

"It's just along here, Father," she indicated to the corner ahead of them, and the opening, revealing an old fashioned cobbled courtyard, strung with sagging, snow covered washing lines and telephone cables.

"Where?"

"Down here, I guess ..."

Catherine pointed to the small flight of wide stone steps, surrounded by a rusted, snow encrusted black wrought iron railing, that led down to a basement apartment.

"Please, be careful Father. It's very icy down there ..."

She suddenly had visions of him losing his footing on the icy stone steps, and tumbling down to the small, square cement landing at the bottom.

"I'm fine," he growled, glaring at her briefly, before slowly lowering himself down on to the first step.

Catherine waited until he was safely on the small square cement landing, then joined him at the weather-beaten door, knocking softly, twice, as she had been instructed to do, in the phone call to the office, juggling with the pile of clothes wrapped in Vincent's spare cloak, tucked under one arm, his large, awkwardly shaped boots under the other.

"Who's there?" A soft, feminine voice called from beyond the door.

"Annie? It's Catherine Chandler. We spoke earlier. About a mutual friend ..."

It took only a few moments for the door to open, and before them stood a reasonably tall woman in her late thirties, dark hair, plump cheeks, vivid hazel eyes, clad in red and white sweater and matching tartan skirt, regarding them curiously from the darkened room.

"You'd better come in," Annie invited, Vincent having confirmed that the caller was indeed his Catherine, but she regarded the elderly, bewhiskered gent with her with suspicion.

Catherine quickly stepped over the threshold, her gaze instantly finding that beloved face, her own breaking into wreaths of smiles, her first instinct to throw herself into his arms ...

"Catherine ..."

"Vincent ..."

However, before she could move, Jacob shouldered his way past her, and limped quickly toward where Vincent lay, wrapped in a thin grey and red blanket, head and shoulders supported by several fat pillows.

"Father," Vincent's voice caught in his throat, as Jacob Wells quickly dropped to his knees, despite his game leg, and pulled his beloved son's head to his old shoulder gently, in a fond embrace.

"Vincent ... " The old man said in a voice rough with emotion. "Thank God. I thought ..."

Catherine and Annie watched the reunion between father and obviously much loved son, with tears brimming in their eyes, then gathering her wits, Annie closed the door quietly, and turned to regard Catherine Chandler.

"I'm Annie. Annie Benson," she held out her shaking hand to the young blonde woman with big grey eyes, looking slim and elegant in a pretty mustard yellow pant suit and dog-tooth checkered winter coat. "You must be Catherine."

"Yes." Catherine accepted her hand briefly.

"He told me about you ..."

"Thank you. For ... taking care of him," Catherine said in a soft voice, feeling a little awkward.

The room was seedy and run down, barely big enough to hold the four of them, but it had been a safe haven for the man that she loved.

"You'll be wanting to take him home now, I guess ..." Annie said awkwardly.

"Yes ..."

"Right ..." She paused briefly. "Can I get you a coffee ... or something ..."

"No, thank you. Not for me ..."

"Catherine," Jacob turned to her then, indicating to the pile of clothes under her arm, and she noted that he had his stethoscope slung haphazardly around his neck, his medical bag open beside him on the floor.

Catherine went to him quickly then, dropping down to her knees beside Vincent, smiling loving down into his beautiful face.

"Catherine ..."

Vincent's good arm withdrew from beneath the blanket then, snaking up around her neck to draw her to him in a warm embrace. She gave, and received in return, a gentle squeeze, wishing that it could have been morem as he gently nuzzled the top of her head with his chin.

"You were so close, Catherine, so close. I could feel you ..."

"I know, Vincent ... now ..."

"Oh Catherine ..." He breathed her name as though it were a prayer.

"I would have walked to the ends of the earth, until I found you," she smiled lovingly up at him through her tears.

"I know ..."

"All right you two," Jacob scolded softly, a tear shining in his deep sapphire blue eyes too now, feeling the love and relief coming from both young people. "There'll be time enough for _**that**_ later ..."

He chuckled, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed their hostess knuckle away an errant tear from the corner of her eye too, obviously touched by the love and devotion displayed by the young sweethearts.

"Vincent, do you think you can travel? Simon and Howard are waiting ..."

"Yes Father," Vincent assured softly, knowing that it would be a struggle, but with the aid of the two strong young men, he was determined that he would make it home.

"Think you can get dressed, if I help you?"

"Yes Father ..."

Annie and Catherine diplomatically turned their backs as Jacob helped his son to dress, both woman eyeing each other with awkward but amused looks, and then, Jacob called upon Catherine to help put Vincent's boots on, whilst he supported the weak, unsteady young man, and Annie hastily removed the bed linen from the floor around their feet, feeling a bit like a fifth wheel.

At last, clad in the dark cloak and other much mended garments that Catherine had brought for him, boots secured about his feet, hood drawn up around his head, Father and Catherine between them, supported Vincent as he walked somewhat unsteadily across the small room, toward the door, where Annie waited to bid him farewell.

"This is ... goodbye then?" Annie pinned a smile on her lips, but it was forced.

"Thank you, Annie," Vincent opened his arms to her, invitingly, much to Catherine's surprise, and Annie closed the gap between them without hesitation, giving him a warm squeeze, and receiving one from him in return. "I will not forget ..."

"You just concentrate on getting well," she chided, pulling away from his embrace.

"Be well, Annie."

"You too."

"We _**will**_ meet again ..." Vincent promised.

"Sure," She smiled weakly. "Do me a favor. Keep out of trouble ..."

"I will ..."

"Goodbye, Vincent ..."

"Goodbye Annie ..."

"I will be along shortly," Jacob Wells told Catherine, as she continued to support Vincent, he careful to try to avoid leaning his full weight against her slender body, as they slowly walked toward the door to the street.

Annie regarded the bewhiskered, elderly gentleman curiously as he approached her.

"My son owes you his life. Thank you. You did a fine job ..."

"I'm a doctor. It's what I do," Annie told him solemnly. "And will do again, thanks to Vincent ..."

Jacob Wells merely nodded, then, before reaching out with a gnarled old hand to squeeze her cool hand gently.

"You will never truly know how grateful I ... _**w**_e ... are ..."

"I think I already do. He's a remarkable ... man," Annie smiled softly them. "Take care of him ..."

"We will, and, thank you, again ..."

"You're welcome," Annie whispered, squeezing tears from her eyes, unable to watch the little party as they disappeared up the steps and into the darkness, and she closed the door swiftly behind them, leaning against the door heavily, as she gave into her tears.

Wondering if she would ever see him again.

And if she would have the strength to continue with the miracle that he had begun.

_**Welcome back to the real world, Annie!**_

_**Get a life!**_

I fully intend to Grannie!

Oh yes, I fully intend to!

I fully intend to get back _**my**_ life ...

The life I always dreamed about.

The happy life that I deserve, because, I really _**do**_ deserve it.

Don't I, Grannie?

_**Yes child. You surely do.**_


	15. Chapter 15

Vincent sank back against the familiar pillows on his soft, familiar bed, the clatter of a distant subway train and the irregular clanking and tapping on the pipes soothing and familiar too.

His eyes closed, he let out a soft sigh.

The trek back from Brooklyn had been long and arduous and a silent, solemn affair, supported by the two concerned young men, Simon and Howard, made longer by the need for many stops for him to get his breath and to steady his shaking limbs.

_**Annie had been right ...**_

If he had tried to make it back alone last night ...

He would surely have ...

_**No, that did not bare thinking about.**_

After Catherine and Father had helped him to the print shop entrance in the sub-basement of _**KIMBLES**_, and he had again embraced each of them with love and relief, Vincent had insisted that Catherine drive Father back to the Central Park threshold, assured them that he could manage, with the help of Simon and Howard, to make it back to the home tunnels, and his chamber, where he would meet them.

Father had, of course, protested, as Vincent had known that he would, but only meekly, and in the end, he had seen the sense of it, and had allowed himself to be persuaded.

Both Catherine and Father had been waiting for Vincent as he staggered into his chamber, and Father had instantly taken charge of the situation, ordering his son to bed immediately, and set about checking his pulse, blood pressure, temperature and applying clean dressings.

From over Father's shoulder, Vincent had given Catherine a pained look of appeal to help him out, and she had not been able to smother a smile at the expression on his face.

It was just so wonderful to have him back.

Safe.

And in one piece.

After seeing to Vincent's immediate medical needs, and making him more comfortable, Father had launched into one of his lectures again, about the stupidity of his taking risks Above, not disappointing Vincent in the slightest, until his son had feigned sleep, and Jacob had finally run out of bluster and wind .

He had pressed a soft, affectionate kiss to Vincent's brow before hurrying out of the chamber to inform the community of their friend's return and his condition.

"It's all right. He's gone," Catherine chuckled softly, having heard his soft sigh. She came to perch on the edge of the bed as Vincent opened his eyes warily.

"I did not think that he would ever run out of steam ..." He sighed again deeply.

"You know, a lot of what he said was true," Catherine pointed out gently.

"Yes ..."

"You really scared us, Vincent. Scared _**me**_ ..."

"I know, and I am sorry, Catherine ..."

"Don't be sorry. Just don't make a habit of it. Promise me that you wont scare me like that again, Vincent ..."

"How can I do that, Catherine? Loving someone means that you are always going to be afraid for them." He reasoned in deep, husky tones. "As I fear for you ..."

"That's different," Catherine protested. "You always know where I am, even when I'm in danger. Vincent, I didn't know where you were. I can't _**feel**_ you ..."

"Catherine, please, let's not do this, right now ..."

He regarded her wearily, with soft blue eyes full of love.

"Feeling you, as I do, is what kept me alive. I could feel your love for me, your fear for me. I could feel you reaching out to me, imploring me to hold on to your love ..."

"Yes ..." She smiled softly.

"I am sorry that you were frightened, Catherine ..."

"I was more than frightened, Vincent. I was terrified. Terrified that you were lying dead somewhere, that I would never see you again, and I would never have the chance to tell you just how much you mean to me, just how much I need you, _**love**_ you ..."

Her voice was low and intense with emotion as she reached out and took his hand in her own. "And I _**do**_ love you, Vincent ..."

"I know, Catherine ..."

"And I forgive you for scaring the hell out of me, this time, although ..." She faltered suddenly, lowering her gaze.

Vincent tilted his head on one side, birdlike, and regarded Catherine curiously, sensing some very mixed and strange emotions in her now, remembered fear, relief, love and amusement.

"Catherine?"

"I'm not so sure that I forgive you for falling, naked, into the arms of another woman!" She grinned wickedly, despite her words.

"Catherine!" Vincent exclaimed.

_**And he had thought that Annie had a wicked sense of humor**__!_

"It's all right, Vincent," she soothed softly. "Narcissa assured me that she was just a friend and I believed her ..."

"Narcissa?" Vincent frowned.

"Yes. We had quite an interesting conversation, Narcissa and I. Remind me to tell you about it some time ..."

She reached out then, and cupped his beloved face with her small, warm hand.

"But, right now I'm more interested in finding out more about this Angel Of Mercy called Annie ..."

/a\

Two days later, Annie Benson was surprised to find Catherine Chandler waiting for her on her doorstep when she got home from a late shift at the nursing home.

"Hello again," she greeted the other woman politely. "Is he ..."

"Vincent is well. Thanks to you," Catherine smiled softly, looking very elegant and businesslike in a dark grey raincoat, chocolate corduroy jeans and dark brown espadrilles on her feet. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her eyes bright and sparkling.

"He's getting stronger every day, driving Father mad by refusing to stay in bed ..."

"Would you like to come in?" Annie offered, somewhat self-consciously, feeling a little like an unmade bed in her short white uniform dress, short black leather jacket and sneakers, her hair loose around her shoulders, damp from the slight drizzle in the air.

"Yes, thank you," Catherine smiled again, and followed Annie inside. "I didn't get the chance to thank you properly the other day ..."

"There's really no need ..." Annie sighed softly.

"Annie, Vincent told me ... everything ..."

The other woman suddenly regarded Catherine with suspicion then.

"What's to tell?"

"About what happened to you, why you gave up medicine ..."

"Oh ..."

"I would like to help, Annie."

"How?" Annie sat down heavily on the bed then, and ran her fingers roughly through her hair. "Look, Miss Chandler ... you don't owe me anything ..."

"No Annie, Vincent, his family, friends, we all believe in helping each other, supporting each other. You helped Vincent, saved his life. Now, let us help you, please."

"There's no need."

"Annie, Vincent told you that you wouldn't be alone ..."

"Yes."

"And I made a promise to him, that I would come here, because he can't come himself, to keep that promise," Catherine sighed softly. "Let me help you, Annie. I know that it won't be easy to stop drinking, to pick up the pieces. So, let me help you. Let me stand by you, when Vincent himself cannot."

"Help? How?"

"I could go to AA meetings with you, put you in touch with victim support, a Counselor, help you to find a job as a doctor. Anything at all. I want to do that Annie. Truly, I do ..."

"Why?"

"Because Vincent says that you are a friend. A good woman. Someone that we can trust."

"He said that? About me?" Annie said in a small, choked, sad voice, genuinely touched by his faith in her.

"Yes," Catherine confirmed with a broad smile. "And I trust his judgement, Annie. He's never been wrong yet ..."

"There is always a first time ..."

"Perhaps, but I don't think he's wrong about _**you**_, Annie."

Catherine crossed the room slowly, then dropped to her knees before the other woman, taking her small, cold hands in her own.

"We all need friends, Annie," she spoke softly. "Why continue alone, when you don't need to? Let me be your friend," she implored. "Not for any other reason than, I like you, admire your courage, and, your taste in men," she grinned then. "And I think that you and I could become good friends, Annie ..."

"Maybe," Annie conceded softly, already beginning to like this woman for her honesty and her courage.

And she was right.

She hadn't had a drink since the night that she had found Vincent outside her apartment, but she had been sorely tempted since he had been gone.

She had even gotten as far as the meeting hall of the local Alcoholics Anonymous group last night, but hadn't had the guts to actually go inside.

"You can succeed, Annie, but you don't have to do it alone ..."

"I'll think about it."

"Good. By the way, Vincent sends his best wishes."

"Yeah? Give him mine too, when you see him ..."

"I will. Annie, please call me," Catherine handed Annie a small, white business card, on the reverse of which she had scribbled her home telephone number. "Be well, Annie."

"Yeah, you too ..."

/a\

The Winterfest candles were lit, music playing softly in the background as little knots of people stood chatting and laughing.

Catherine, Father and Vincent stood together, watching the merriment with soft smiles, making the odd little comment to each other about the celebrations, as the tunnel dwellers and their friends from the world Above mingled and chatted happily.

Their interest was in one particular little group of people.

Dr Peter Alcott, who was holding court, with Mary, William and Dr Annie Benson.

Annie looked beautiful in a deep green velvet gown to match her sparkling hazel eyes, and she looked happy and relaxed as she talked shop with Peter Alcott.

"It's hard to believe that it's been a year," Catherine observed, watching her two friends smiling at each other as they shared a joke. Peter was flirting outrageously with Annie, but she was taking it all in good part, giving back as good as she got, much to William's amusement and Mary's embarrassment.

"Annie has come a long way," Vincent observed, a hint of pride in his deep, husky voice.

"Indeed she has," Jacob Wells commented softly, also a hint of pride and affection in his voice.

He and Annie had become firm friends over the last twelve months, and he was surprisingly proud of her courage, determination and tenacity.

Annie had confided to Catherine only the other day, over lunch, that from Jacob, she felt the love of a father, and that she even suspected that he thought of her as the daughter he had never had.

"It is indeed a long way back from the depths of despair," he said, recalling the winter of his own despair, and his own need for love and support and encouragement, which he hoped the community Below, Catherine, Vincent and himself had offered to Annie in her time of need.

"But the journey is not so perilous when one is surrounded by good friends, and love," Vincent remarked sagely.

It had indeed been an extraordinary year for Annie Benson. A year when she had hit the depths of despair, and had forced herself to struggle to overcome her fear of the past, regain her confidence and recover from her alcohol abuse, no mean feat in it's self.

With Catherine Chandler's help and friendship she had attended AA meetings, Catherine standing by her as her 'buddy' and the two women had become firm friends. Indeed, almost as close as sisters, and their deepening friendship had been both a joy and a relief to Vincent, who often paid a late night visit to Annie to offer his love and support too.

It had been a struggle, but at last, Annie was a whole person again, knowing a deeper peace and contentment than she had ever known, and she was finally back on her feet, having landed a post in a private clinic in Manhattan, as a junior paediatric consultant.

She was happy with her work and with the friends in her life, and just last week, Catherine had helped her to move into a pretty little apartment in Greenwich Village.

She hadn't had a drink in almost a year, and she was stronger and fitter than she had ever been.

And, Catherine thought to herself, if the way that she was responding to Peter Alcott's flattery was anything to go by, she was ready for a little romance in her life too.

Annie had been introduced to the community Below very slowly and gradually, although they had all been eager to meet the woman who had saved Vincent's life, firstly through gifts of food and clothing and providing bed linen and medical supplies, through Catherine and Vincent, and then, eventually, through brief jaunts down to chat with Father, playing chess with him and keeping him appraised of the advances in medicine in the world Above.

And it was Father who had taken it upon himself to show her around his world, and introduce her to its numerous inhabitants, proud and very happy when they had all welcomed her with open arms.

Surrounded by the warmth of their friendship and love, Annie had blossomed and grown in confidence.

And all because of chance encounter with a stranger.

_**Vincent ...**_

That unique being whom had touched something in her that she had thought lost forever.

And whom had opened up the world for her in ways that she had never dreamed possible.

/a\

"The candles were very beautiful this year," Catherine sighed softly as she leaned contentedly against Vincent's solid, broad chest.

They had returned, very late, from the Winterfest celebrations Below, and although the February night was chill, out here on her balcony terrace, Catherine was warm and contented in the circle of Vincent's very welcome embrace.

"And so were you, Catherine ..."

"Flatterer," she smiled serenely up at him, reaching up to pull back a stray tendril of his fluffy mane, which the wind had pulled across his cheek. "I thought Annie looked beautiful too. So happy. So relaxed. it's been quite a transformation. You were right, she has come a long way, but with our love and support, she has come through it."

"Yes." He sighed deeply, drawing her closer.

"Vincent, you love her, don't you?" Catherine asked shyly. "It's all right," she added when he remained silent, regarding her with a steady blue gaze. "I do understand, Vincent. How could I not? She did for _**you**_, what you did for _**me**_, when you found me that night, took me home, cared for me, but, for us it was _**more**_ than that, Vincent. You understand what I'm trying to say ..."

"Yes ..." He gazed down at her in awe at her understanding.

"I love her too," Catherine smiled softly at him. "She's like a sister to me. Something else that I have you to thank for," she paused briefly, growing serious now.

"When I think back to last year, to how frightened I was, and I remember how worried I was for you, how I was so afraid that you would die, and I would never have the chance to tell you that I loved you ..."

"Sh, I remember, but that is past," Vincent reached out and began to stroke her hair in a soft, reassuring rhythm. "I am well now. Strong again, and we are together ..."

"Yes, Vincent," she sighed softly, resting her cheek against the rough material of his cloak, circling her arms around his solid waist and clasping them together behind his back.

"I've done a lot of thinking since then, about us, and after all that we have been through, I have come to believe that we_** will**_ always be together, Vincent, that we _**have**_ always been together, throughout eternity."

She looked up into his beautiful blue eyes then and smiled softly.

"_**Wherever**_ you are, _**whoever**_ you are, _**my**_ soul will find you and _**your**_ soul will find me. We belong together ..."

"That is very poetic, Catherine." He smiled softly down at her.

"You know what I mean," she punched him playfully in the shoulder then, and again he was reminded of just how much Annie Benson's sense of humor was rubbing off on Catherine these days.

"I believe that we are meant to be, Vincent, meant to be together. Always. Be it for five minutes or fifty years, we are meant to be ..."

"Perhaps ..." He sighed wistfully.

"Even beyond death ..."

He looked down at her suddenly then, and saw the certainty and serenity in her beautiful face.

"Vincent, I don't worry so much about losing you any more because I truly believe that for us, death is just a stepping stone to the next adventure ..."

"You really are waxing lyrical this evening, Catherine ..."

"Don't mock," She chided lightly. "Can't a girl try to get a little romantic?" She grinned then.

"Is _**that**_ what _**this**_ is?" He chuckled softly.

"Hey!" She punched him again, playfully, in the shoulder.

"Forgive me," he lowered his head and tried to look solemn, but her amusement was infectious.

"Maybe I'm not being poetic enough ..."

"I don't know, Catherine ..." He smiled softly.

"I heard a few lines the other day, that struck me as being meant for us, they made me stop and think ..."

"Shakespeare?" He asked softly, nuzzling the top of her head with his chin now.

"No, I was watching an old movie on t.v. ..."

"Ah ..." He rumbled.

"No, listen, Vincent, I'm being serious now," she regarded him with big, hurt grey eyes then.

"A thousand apologies, Catherine ..." He sighed softly. "Tell me." He invited.

"It was an old black and white movie, a war movie ..." He arched an eyebrow in surprise then. "About a woman. A British agent working with the French resistance in the second world war, but I don't recall what the movie was called ..."

"And the poem?" He coaxed.

"Written for her by her husband I think, who was killed. The lines were these:

_**THE LIFE THAT I HAVE, IS ALL THAT I HAVE, **__**AND THE LIFE THAT I HAVE IS YOURS.**_

_**THE LOVE THAT I HAVE, OF THE LIFE THAT I HAVE, **__**IS YOURS AND YOURS AND YOURS.**_

_**A SLEEP I SHALL HAVE, A REST I SHALL HAVE, **__**YET DEATH WILL BE BUT A PAUSE,**_

_**FOR THE PEACE OF MY YEARS, IN THE LONG GREEN **__**GRASS,**_

_**WILL BE YOURS AND YOURS AND YOURS.**_

"Do you understand, Vincent? Do you know why it struck such a chord in me?"

"Yes ..." He spoke the word on a long deep sigh.

"Death is no barrier for love, and it does not have to be the end ..."

Vincent was silent for a long moment, clinging to her tightly, and then he let out another deep sigh.

"How is it that you know how to humble me, Catherine, set my feet firmly back on the ground and remind me of the miracle that is your love?"

"Because I _**do**_ love you, Vincent," she sighed too. "Always. You are my life, my home. When I am with you, nothing else matters ..."

"For me too ..."

Catherine wrapped her arms around his middle again, and he supported her gently as she leaned heavily against him, burying her face in his warm chest.

"We have nothing to fear from any kind of separation, Vincent, for we will never _**truly**_ be apart," she sighed contentedly, snuggling against him, her arms squeezing him tightly. "I love you ..."

"I love you too ..."


End file.
